#// they'll be completed in time but feel free to follow! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hoe4hotchner · 1 month ago

Text

You left me behind, and now I see you everywhere | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAU!fem!Reader | WC: 11.6k | CW: MDNI, 18+, emotional distress, heartbreak, angst, unresolved feelings, grief, heated argument, anger, smut, piv, wrap it before you tap it, it's office sex, heated kiss, dirty talk, kind of rough sex, general case talk, mention of mr. Scratch (if that's even a warning, maybe some of y'all have trauma ;))

Summary: After years apart, following Hotch’s departure into witness protection and his decision to run for Congress, you're forced to confront unresolved feelings when you meet again. Tension builds as you navigate your emotional fallout, leading to a passionate confrontation and a second chance at love.

A/N: Worldwide by Big time rush started playing from my playlist as I reached the last scene to edit…. I had to stop myself from crying cause that song fits so well for some reason.

Peter Lewis was dead. Mr. Scratch was finally gone. With him out of the picture, Aaron could come back. That had been your one glimmer of hope through all the sleepless nights and endless waiting — knowing that once Lewis was no longer a threat, the man you loved would return. No more running, no more hiding. Hotch and Jack would finally be safe.

You clung to that thought like a lifeline, repeating it to yourself over and over again: He can come back now. He’ll come back to me. He'll come home.

The rumors had reached your ears days before Rossi called the meeting. Hotch was out of witness protection. Finally free to do what he wanted, to reach out again. Your heart soared at the news, desperate for it to be true. You had tried to keep your emotions in check, to remind yourself that things weren’t that simple, that there were procedures he had to go through before he could come home. But still, the idea of him walking through those doors — or knocking on your door — returning to his place at the BAU, and — most importantly — returning to you, was the only thing that kept you from breaking completely during his absence. It was the only reason why you had been able to keep your composure.

Now, as you stood in the conference room, your arms wrapped tightly around your torso, you tried to calm the rapid beating of your heart. The relief of knowing Peter Lewis was gone should have been enough. It should have been enough.

They'll be safe.

Rossi took his place at the front, his demeanor was serious, a subtle weight to his usually warm expression that you'd come to love over the years. You could see the effort it took for him to meet your eyes, his gaze softening as though he knew the words that would follow would shatter you. Rossi had become a rock to you over the past year, always there to have a heartfelt chat about your feelings, how you were doing, and the progress you'd made trying to move on. But in reality, you hadn't.

“I’ve spoken to Aaron,” Rossi said, his voice calm but laced with gravity. “He and Jack are safe. They’ve left witness protection.”

You exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and joy rushing through you. He’s safe. After everything, he was safe. That meant he would come back. He had to.

But then Rossi continued, his eyes flicking over the team, hesitant in a way that made your stomach twist. “Hotch won't be returning to the BAU.”

The world around you froze. His words echoed in your ears, but your mind rejected them, refusing to accept the truth they carried. He’s not coming back? It didn’t make sense. You couldn’t make sense of it.

"What do you mean he’s not coming back?"

The tears welled up before you could stop them. Your throat tightened, and you felt your heart shatter inside your chest. He wasn’t coming back. The man you loved — the man you had held onto, even when he left you behind — was choosing not to return, was choosing to stay away. The hope you had so carefully nurtured and held onto was ripped away in an instant, replaced by a cold, gnawing sense of abandonment. You felt the pit in your stomach, and you couldn't tell if you were going to throw up at the revelation.

It felt like someone had stabbed you with a knife.

Tears blurred your vision as you stared blankly ahead, your body betraying you as the sobs threatened to spill out. You blinked rapidly, trying to push them back, trying to ground yourself, but it was no use. How could he?

You had waited. You had been patient. You had loved him through all of it — through the secrecy in the beginning, through the ups and the downs, and now through the distance. You had held onto the belief that once the threat was over, he would come back to you. That you two could be whole again. That your soul finally would be reunited with its missing piece. But now, it seemed like everything you had hoped for, everything you had believed in, was gone.

Your hands shook as you tried to wipe the tears from your face, but they just kept coming. He’s not coming back. The realization pierced through your chest, sharp and unforgiving. It was like reliving the moment he left, only this time, there was no promise of a future. No promise of us.

You felt like a fool. You had been his, entirely, even when he hadn’t been yours. You had given him everything — your love, your trust, your loyalty. And now? Now he had left you with nothing but the weight of that betrayal.

Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, but you couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. The room around you faded into the background as your world crumbled at Rossi’s words.

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t coming back. Not to the team. Not to you.

The silence in the room after Rossi’s announcement was deafening. You stood there, tears streaming down your face, completely oblivious to the concerned glances being exchanged around you. The tension in your chest was unbearable, and it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Emily was the first to notice, her brow furrowing as she took a step toward you. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice full of concern as she tilted her head with compassion. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The words were stuck in your throat, buried under the crushing weight of your emotions. You shook your head, your lips trembling as you tried — and failed — to stop the tears. Truth be told, they weren't surprised by your reaction.

“Hey, come here,” JJ said gently, moving closer, her hand hovering just above your shoulder, wanting to pull you in for a hug. Her touch was warm and comforting, but it felt like too much. The kindness, the sympathy — it overwhelmed you, only reminded you of how deeply you’d been hurt.

You pulled away, a sudden, jerky movement that made JJ’s hand drop back to her side. The rejection was unintentional, but you couldn’t help it. Your skin felt like it was on fire, and all you wanted was to be left alone, to scream and cry.

“I’m fine,” you managed to choke out, though the crack in your voice betrayed you. You turned away from them, wiping furiously at your face, even though the tears wouldn’t stop.

I can’t break down here. Not in front of them.

Morgan stepped forward, his expression softening as he watched you struggle. “You don’t have to pretend, you know. We know how much he meant to you. We’re here for you,” he said, his voice low, it was sincere, but you weren't ready for that, weren't ready to admit that this was your new reality.

But that was the problem. They were all there, and you were unraveling in front of them, exposed and vulnerable. You didn’t want their comfort. You didn’t want their pity. What you wanted was Aaron. You wanted answers. You wanted an explanation for why he had chosen to leave you behind, why he wasn’t coming back. For why he never called.

Your heart twisted painfully at the thought. You clenched your fists at your sides, feeling the weight of their eyes on you, all of them waiting, ready to offer support. But it wasn’t enough. It will never be enough.

They weren't him.

You shook your head again, more forcefully this time. “I just—” Your voice cracked, the rest of the sentence dying on your tongue. “I need to go.”

Rossi, who had been quietly watching the exchange from across the room, stepped forward. His eyes were filled with understanding, but there was nothing he could say that would make this easier, there was nothing he could do that wouldn't make you hate him. “Take the day if you need to,” he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that usually offered comfort, though it barely registered through the numbness settling into your bones.

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You nodded stiffly, walking into the bullpen to grab your things. Your hands shook, desperate to escape before you completely fell apart in front of everyone.

“Hey,” Emily called out, stepping out of the conference room, but you didn’t turn around. You couldn’t face them — not now, maybe not ever. You pushed through the door, your footsteps echoing loudly in the hallway as you fled the room, the concerned voices of your teammates fading behind you.

Your heart raced as you moved down the familiar corridors, each step feeling heavier than the last. The walls closed in, the pressure mounting in your chest until it became unbearable. By the time you reached the front doors, you could barely see through the tears, your vision blurred, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts.

Outside, the cool air hit your face, but it did little to soothe the ache in your chest. Grey clouds loomed over your head, threatening to spill the same tears that you so desperately tried to hold back.

You stopped as you reached the end of the parking lot, finally letting the sobs you had been holding back tear through you, the grief, the betrayal, all of it crashing over you in waves.

He’s not coming back.

The words repeated in your mind, over and over again, each time cutting deeper than the last.

You had never felt so abandoned, so completely lost. And the worst part was, you had no idea what to do next, no idea who to turn to. Because the only person you truly wanted to turn to was gone from your life.

The walk back to your apartment felt like a blur, the city passing by in a haze of noise and light. You barely registered the world around you — your mind was somewhere else entirely, trapped in the ache of Rossi’s words and the sharp sting of Hotch’s decision. He wasn’t coming back. The words haunted you.

That thought pulsed through your veins, making each step feel heavier than the last. By the time you reached your door, your hands were still trembling as you fumbled with the lock, desperate to get inside and just breathe.

But the second you stepped into your apartment, something felt off.

You paused just inside the doorway, your body instinctively tensing as a strange feeling washed over you. The air felt… different. Still. You took a cautious step forward, your eyes scanning the familiar space, searching for something — anything — that looked out of the ordinary, that might explain the knot forming in your stomach.

Then you saw it.

Sitting neatly on the dining table, in plain view, were your spare keys. Next to them was an envelope with your name on it, scrawled in a handwriting only a left-handed person could've written. You recognized it immediately.

Aaron’s.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you just stood there, frozen in time. Fear and confusion mixed with a sick sense of dread as you stared at the letter, the weight of it pressing down on your chest. How did he get in?

And how had he gotten out? The door had after all been locked.

Your heart pounded from your heart to your ears as you walked toward the table, the floor feeling unsteady beneath your feet. You hesitated for a long moment before picking up the envelope, the paper felt cold and rough between your fingers. The sight of his handwriting was almost too much to bear.

He had been here.

With shaking hands, you slid your finger through the envelope, carefully opening it and removing the letter as if it was the most delicate thing you had ever seen. Your eyes scanned the words, every stroke of the pen, every curve and twist was a painful reminder of the man who had once been yours.

The letter read:

𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢.

𝙸 ��𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔.

𝙸 𝚘𝚠𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢. ��𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝. 𝙴𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝙰𝚄. 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝙷𝚎’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 — 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 — 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚢. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚕.

𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑. 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚜, 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙾𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖.

𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢. 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 — 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎.

𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗.

𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

— 𝙰𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗

The letter slipped from your hands, fluttering to the floor as your legs gave out beneath you. The sobs came violently, tearing through you as you collapsed onto the floor of your living room.

This was it. This was the moment where everything you had been holding inside — every ounce of grief, every bit of hope that had clung to your heart over the past year — finally broke free. The pain you had shoved down for so long, the hurt you had tried so hard to hide, came rushing out all at once, too powerful to contain.

You pressed your hands to your face, the tears spilling uncontrollably as your chest heaved with sobs. He had been here. He had come back to your space, to your life, only to leave you with words that felt like daggers in your heart.

He could've waited for you to come home.

He had made his choice. He was leaving you behind. And he had done it with the same precision he used for everything — careful, calculated and always thinking ahead. You couldn’t fault him for wanting to protect Jack. You would've done the same if you had been in his shoes. But you could hate the way he had left you, hate him for making you feel discarded, like something in his life that could be put away, neatly, and forgotten about without a second thought.

You curled into yourself on the floor, hugging your legs, your body trembling as wave after wave of sorrow washed over you. This wasn’t just about him leaving the BAU. This was about him leaving you. About him cutting you out of his life completely, like you had never mattered at all.

The sobs racked through you, they were raw and unrelenting, as you lay there on the cold floor of your apartment, clutching at the emptiness inside you. You had been holding onto him for so long, for too long, and now he was gone — really gone. And you were left with nothing more than the bitter taste in your mouth and the sound of your own shattered heart echoing in the silence.

Six years had passed since Hotch had walked out of your life.

In that time, you had grown, changed — hardened, perhaps. You’d thrown yourself into your work, climbing the ranks within the BAU. The weight of your experience now rested comfortably on your shoulders. You were no longer the agent who had cried in Rossi’s office all those late nights, the agent who had stood frozen in the conference room all those years ago, devastated by the news of Hotch’s permanent departure.

Now, you were Emily's right hand, trusted to run the team when needed, especially when bureaucracy. Rossi had decided to stop back a bit, taking on fewer cases and focusing more on his writing as he attempted weaning himself away from the team, hoping that this time he truly would be able to retire.

Leading the team had come naturally to you, though some days, when the office was quiet and your mind wandered, you still felt the ache of his absence.

You sighed softly, rubbing the back of your neck as you closed your office door behind you. It was time for the next briefing, and you’d promised Emily you’d call everyone in. The case was urgent — a missing child, time was not on your side — but as you walked toward the conference room, your attention was pulled to the large TV mounted on the wall in the bullpen.

A voice you hadn’t heard in years rang out through the room, smooth and familiar, the same low timbre that had once soothed your heart. The voice that still echoed in your dreams on nights when sleep was particularly elusive.

Aaron.

You stopped in your tracks, eyes snapping to the television screen, your heart thudding loudly in your chest as his face filled the screen. You couldn't tell if it was anxiety or love perhaps, that raced through your veins, the only thing you knew was that you were feeling something. Something you hadn't felt in years.

There he was, standing at a podium, flanked by the American flag, a calm and authoritative presence as he spoke to a crowd. The caption running along the bottom read: Former FBI unit chief Aaron Hotchner Announces Candidacy for a spot in Congress.

Your breath hitched. He looked older. The lines on his face were more defined, his hair tinged with a little more gray, his face was shaven, somethings never change you thought — though you could sense the salt and pepper streaks that had started appearing within it. The years had marked him, but there was still an undeniable strength in his presence. A steady, unshakable resolve that had always been a part of who he was.

And yet, even now, after all this time, he still looked as good as the day you last saw him. Perhaps even more so, with that air of confidence that seemed to come so naturally to him. The sharpness in his gaze, the way he commanded a room — it was all still there, just as you remembered — even through a TV screen.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“…It is with great honor that I announce my candidacy for Congress,” Hotch’s voice continued, steady and firm. “My years of service in the FBI have prepared me to take on the challenges we face as a nation, and I believe it’s time to bring the values of justice and integrity to the forefront of our government. I believe it's time for a change.”

The camera zoomed in on his face, his expression was stoic yet passionate, every word calculated and purposeful. The sight of him brought back a rush of memories — late nights in the office, quiet moments where you’d lean on each other after a case, the warmth of his smile when it was just the two of you, away from the chaos, the comfort of his hugs, the soft and tender feeling of his lips — everything came back.

But those memories were ghosts now. Echoes of a time you had buried deep, right along with the pain of losing him.

A lump formed in your throat as you stood there, rooted in place, watching a man who had once been everything to you stand on that stage, now completely out of reach — yet so close by. He wasn’t the same man you knew all those years ago, you were sure of that. He wasn’t your Hotch anymore. He was something else entirely — a public figure, a leader stepping into the political arena, ready to take on a whole new world — perhaps he never really was yours to begin with.

Your fingers tightened around the folder in your hands, your knuckles turning white with sheer force, the weight of it grounding you as you forced yourself to breathe. You didn’t know what to feel. Shock, maybe. Sadness. Perhaps even a bit of pride, seeing him like this, doing something for the greater good. But mostly, there was a gnawing ache deep in your chest, a familiar one, reminding you of what could have been.

You blinked rapidly, tearing your gaze away from the screen as the room started to blur around you. Your heart was racing, but you couldn’t let yourself fall apart. Not here. Not now.

“Everything okay?” Luke asked, walking past you, his eyes flicking to the TV screen before landing back on you, concern etched on his face. He didn't know much about your relationship with Hotch, only the rumors that had flown between the desks in the bullpen as you'd drowned yourself in work trying to suffocate the pain.

You nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you lied, your voice tight. “I’ll be right there. Just… finishing something up.”

Luke gave you a nod, but his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he headed toward the conference room, leaving you standing there, feeling like the air had been sucked out of the space around you.

You turned back to the screen, just in time to catch the last shot of Hotch stepping down from the podium, the applause from the crowd ringing out as the camera panned away.

For a brief moment, you wondered if he had ever thought about you during these last six years. If he had thought of calling you. If, somewhere in that busy mind of his, you had crossed his thoughts as he prepared to step into this new chapter of his life.

But it didn’t matter now. He had made his choice, and so had you.

Taking a deep breath, you straightened your shoulders and turned away from the screen, pushing down the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. There was a case to solve. There always was. And that was the only thing that mattered now.

“Alright, team,” you called out, walking towards the conference room, your voice steady once again. “Let’s get to work.”

You walked into the conference room, trying to shake off the lingering effects of seeing Hotch on the TV. The rest of the team was already seated as you made it inside, files in hand, waiting for you to start the briefing. Emily glanced at you, her eyes narrowing slightly, sensing something was off, but she didn’t press. She trusted you to compartmentalize when it mattered.

You inhaled deeply and projected the case details on the large screen at the front of the room. The image of a young boy's smiling face filled the space, the innocence in his eyes starkly contrasted by the grim reality of his disappearance and the details listed in the case files of similar incidents in the area.

“Alright, everyone,” you began, keeping your voice steady. “Our missing person is Ethan Marshall, age 7. He was last seen outside of his school two days ago in a quiet suburb of Portland, Oregon. His parents reported him missing when he didn’t come home after his play date that same day with his best friend from class. There’s been no contact from a potential abductor. No ransom demands. The local authorities are stuck, and they’ve requested our help.”

JJ immediately sat forward, flipping through the case file. “Two days with no leads and no communication? We’re looking at someone who doesn’t need the attention. This could be personal, or we’re dealing with someone who’s done this before and knows what they're doing.”

Tara nodded thoughtfully, her gaze still fixed on Ethan’s photo. “The fact that there’s been no contact suggests they’re not after money. This might be about control, power, or even something darker, like revenge or even fantasy or sexually-driven motives.” You closed your eyes for a brief moment at the thought of what the unsub might put the young boy through. You had to find him, quickly.

You clicked through to the next slide — images of Ethan’s parents, Tim and Julia Marshall. “Ethan’s parents are a stable middle-class family with no criminal records. His mother works as a nurse, and his father is a local contractor. No major incidents or enemies we or they know of. However, Tim Marshall's company was sued about a year ago over a construction job that went south. It’s possible there could be a grudge tied to that.”

Luke leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “But to target a child? It’s a big escalation. If this is about the father’s job, we’d need to look into that lawsuit, but we also need to consider the possibility that the kid was the primary target from the start.”

Emily chimed in, her eyes sharp with focus. “Agreed. We should explore all angles — someone with a grudge against the family, a potential predator, or maybe even someone close to the family. It’s often someone they know.”

Spencer, who had been quietly flipping through his notes, spoke up. “The average age for a child abductor is in their mid-thirties to mid-forties, typically male, though that’s not always the case. Most of them have a history of deviant behavior or crimes against minors. If this is someone who’s taken Ethan to satisfy a fantasy, we might be looking at someone who has done this several times before and is getting better at hiding their tracks.”

Your gaze swept over the team, the weight of the case settling in the room. “We’ve got a few potential leads we need to investigate. JJ, I want you to work on the media angle — see if you can coordinate with local news to get a controlled message out, prepare the Marshalls for a conference. Luke, you and Tara will dig deeper into Tim Marshall’s lawsuit. See if there’s anything there we can work with. Spencer, I want you to start profiling any possible suspects within a fifty-mile radius who fit the age and behavioral profile of past offenders.”

The team nodded, already mentally gearing up for the work ahead. You could see the gears turning in their minds as they absorbed the information and pieced together possible profiles of the unsub.

Finally, you cleared your throat, pushing away the personal turmoil still brewing inside you. “Alright, everyone, we’ve got a missing boy out there, and time is against us. We’ll get more information as we land.”

You snapped the case file shut and looked up at your team, your voice firm. “Wheels up in 30.”

The team dispersed quickly, heading off to gather their gear and finalize last-minute preparations. You lingered behind for a moment, watching the case photos flicker on the screen. Your heart was still heavy from earlier, but you had a job to do. No distractions. No room for the past.

Focus, keep moving, you told yourself, even though the image of Hotch’s face still lingered in the back of your mind, you couldn't afford to spare him another thought.

The case had been wrapped up with surprising speed, and the flight back to Quantico was a welcome relief. You settled into your seat, the hum of the plane a calming reminder of the good you and the team had done today. You felt the exhaustion seep into your bones as the plane roared into the sky. The hum of the engines and the rhythmic sound of the wings provided a backdrop, but you couldn't shake the tumult of emotions swirling within you.

As you glanced around the cabin, you noticed that everyone else was fast asleep, the exhaustion from the long days evident on their faces. Emily’s head rested against JJ’s shoulder, and Spencer was curled up in his seat with a book laid open in his lap, the pages fluttering slightly with the plane’s movement. Luke, too, was snoring softly on the couch, a slight smile on his lips as he pulled the blanket tighter around him. They all looked so peaceful.

But your mind was far from peaceful.

You leaned back in your seat, your thoughts racing back to Hotch’s announcement. You had tried to compartmentalize your feelings during the case, focusing solely on finding Ethan. But now, with the rush of adrenaline faded and the quiet of the plane surrounding you, the weight of it all crashed back in.

“Hey,” came a familiar voice, pulling you from your thoughts. Rossi had moved to sit across from you, concern etched into his features. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s going on?”

Before you could filter your thoughts, the words slipped out. “Did you know?”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he knew exactly what you were referring to. “Yes, he called me last week to let me know.”

Your heart raced at the revelation. “He called you? Why didn’t you tell me?” Your words came out as a hushed hiss. Rossi knew you hadn't meant it like that, but your frustration of how everything had panned out had never really gone away. He understood why you were feeling like you did.

Rossi leaned back in his seat, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he took in your features. “I didn’t want to upset you more than you already were. I thought you’d hear about it when he officially announced it. I thought maybe he'd even reach out himself” Rossi knew Hotch wouldn't reach out to you, even if his life depended on it. He was a proud man, and even if he had been willing to admit his wrongs, he was too scared to face you and realize just how big of a mistake this truly had been.

You ran a hand through your hair, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But why, Rossi? Why would he do this? He had a life with us — his life in the BAU, with Jack, with me. And now he’s just… gone.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” he replied softly. “But running for Congress might be a way for him to contribute on a larger scale. He wants to help people, to make a difference, just like he did with us. This was a chance for him to step into a role where he could have an even bigger impact than what he had in the bureau. Who knows, maybe we'll see him around someday.”

You shook your head, the tears threatening to spill again. “But he didn’t even talk to me about it. It’s like he just vanished. I thought we had something, and then he just left. I felt so abandoned.”

Rossi’s expression turned serious. “You know how Hotch is. He’s always been someone who puts others before himself, even at the cost of his own happiness. I think he truly believes this is what’s best for Jack and for himself. It doesn’t mean he didn’t care about you. In fact, I know he cared deeply about you. It just means he’s trying to figure things out in his own way.”

“But what about me?” You whispered, your voice trembling. “I was left behind, and now I’m still here, trying to navigate everything without him.”

Rossi said your name, leaning forward, his eyes softening. It wasn't as much a reprimand, as it was him trying to stop your spiraling thoughts. You both knew it did you no good. Especially not if the rumors were true and Emily was in line for the open position of Section Chief. Both of you knew what that would mean for you. “He made a choice, yes, but it doesn’t erase what you two had. If anything, it highlights how much he valued that relationship. He wouldn’t have just walked away without thinking it through, even if it seems that way.”

You took a deep breath, trying to find your footing amidst the emotional turmoil. “I just don’t know how to deal with all of this. It feels so final, so absolute. I thought I was ready to move on, but seeing him on TV...”

Rossi reached across the table, his hand resting gently on yours. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. It’s okay to feel hurt. It’s okay to be confused. But remember, you’re still part of this team, and we’re here for you, no matter what. You’re not alone in this. You never will be.”

You nodded slowly, his words providing a small sense of comfort amidst the chaos in your heart. “Thanks, Rossi. I appreciate it. I just wish things were different.”

He gave you an understanding smile. “So do I. But whatever happens next, we’ll face it together. And if you need to talk about Hotch, I’m here to listen. Just know that he still cares, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now.” You knew he was right.

As you both fell into a comfortable silence, you felt a little weight lift from your chest. Maybe you didn’t have all the answers yet, but you had the support of your team. And that was a start.

Weeks drifted by like the clouds hanging in the sky, each day seemingly blending into the next. Hotch’s face became a fixture on the television, the cadence of his voice echoing in your mind like a haunting refrain. News reports came almost daily, showcasing him speaking passionately about his vision for change, the values he held dear, and the policies he aimed to implement if elected. The topics ranged from community safety to education reform, and while many praised his ideals, you found yourself seething each time his image flickered across the screen.

He still hadn't contacted you yet.

At first, you tried to engage with the reports, focusing on the substance of his speeches, realizing that despite everything he's policies aligned with your values too, but as each new broadcast emerged, anger simmered beneath the surface. It was infuriating to watch the man you loved stand there, poised and confident — visiting schools, nursery homes, community centers, and everything in between — while you were left with nothing but fragments of the life you had once envisioned together. He seemed so distant, a stranger now, embodying everything you once admired but now felt betrayed by.

Each time you heard his voice, the way he articulated his beliefs with the conviction that had once made your heart race, you locked yourself in your office for the remainder of the day, drowning out the world with your frustration and sorrow. Your colleagues exchanged worried glances as you retreated, but you couldn’t bring yourself to explain. They didn’t know the depth of your pain, the feeling of abandonment that clawed at your insides. And you weren't ready for them to know.

On one particularly long evening, the office was silent, the usual buzz of activity having died down as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across your workspace. You sat alone at your desk, the glow of your computer screen the only light illuminating the room. Your heart felt heavy, the emotional burden weighing on you like a thick blanket.

As the clock ticked away, you absentmindedly pulled out your phone and scrolled through your photos. You found it — the last picture you had taken with Hotch and Jack. You hadn't meant to look for it, but something within you had drawn your mind to that particular folder with pictures you never quite had the strength to transfer out of your phone. In the picture, the three of you stood in the park, sunlight filtering through the trees, laughter frozen in time. Hotch’s arm was around you, a protective and loving gesture, while Jack beamed in front of you, holding his soccer ball in his hands, all youthful energy and innocence.

You stared at the image, the way Hotch’s eyes crinkled at the edges with genuine joy, contrasting sharply with the turmoil roiling in your chest. A single tear slid down your cheek, carving a path through the haze of anger and hurt.

“Jack,” you whispered to yourself, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the office. He must be close to 18 now. The thought struck you like a lightning bolt. Time had slipped by so swiftly, and you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of young man he had become. Had Hotch been there for him? Had he taken the time to show his son what love was? Did they share the same laughter you once did, or had the weight of their decisions overshadowed those moments?

You closed your eyes, allowing your mind to drift back to memories of Jack — the way his laughter filled the room, his playful spirit that lit up the darkest days. The action figures scattered all over your apartment. You remembered the way he would come running into your arms when you stayed over for the weekend, his small frame clinging to you like you were the safest place in the world. You had cherished those moments, and now they felt like distant echoes, fading into the background of your life.

The thought of him growing up without you, of Hotch and Jack creating a new life that you weren’t a part of, twisted in your gut. The anger that had bubbled beneath the surface surged forth again, but this time, it mingled with an overwhelming sense of grief and longing. You felt like a ghost haunting the edges of their lives, watching from afar as they moved on, while you were trapped in a limbo of unresolved feelings.

Taking a deep breath, you swiped the tear from your cheek and opened your eyes. You couldn’t stay like this. You couldn’t let him keep affecting you from a distance, even if it meant facing the truth of your feelings. You needed to regain control, to reclaim your narrative, whatever that might look like.

As you set the phone down, determination coursed through you. You would find a way to confront the anger and pain, to redefine your path without him. But the journey would be a challenge — one you weren’t entirely ready to take, yet knew you had to face.

With a heavy sigh, you stood, ready to leave the remnants of that day behind. You took one last look at the photo on your phone, whispering softly, “I hope you’re happy, Hotch. I really do.”

And with that, you stepped out of the office, leaving for the night, leaving the memories behind, but carrying them with you as you prepared for whatever came next.

A couple of days passed since that late night in your office, the echo of memories lingering like a haunting refrain. You had spent the time focusing on work, throwing yourself into cases, and helping your team. It was a temporary distraction, but every time you caught sight of a news segment featuring Hotch, you felt that familiar ache in your chest. Each broadcast, showcasing his polished demeanor and political aspirations, only stoked the embers of frustration and longing buried deep within you.

Then, one afternoon, as you sat at your desk, your phone buzzed with an incoming message from an unknown number. Your heart raced with curiosity and a hint of apprehension as you opened the text:

“Hey! It’s Jack..... I don't know if you remember me. I know this is a bit out of the blue, but I’d love to see you. We're back in Virginia again. I miss you and wanted to ask if you’d meet with me. Sorry if this is weird, but I hope you’re okay.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was Jack. After all these years, he was reaching out. The memories of his laughter and bright smile flooded back, bringing with them a rush of warmth and bittersweet nostalgia. Without a second thought, you quickly typed out your response.

“Hi, Jack! It’s great to hear from you. I’d love to meet. How about we catch up at the café near the Academy?”

You hit send and felt a wave of nervous excitement wash over you, followed closely by a rush of trepidation. What would he look like? Would he be the same boy you remembered, or had he transformed into someone else entirely different? The thought churned in your stomach as you anxiously awaited his reply.

The day of the meeting arrived, and as you approached the café, your heart raced with anticipation. The small establishment was bustling with life, the aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the air, mingling with the sweet scent of pastries. You stepped inside, scanning the room until your eyes landed on him.

Jack sat at a table in the corner, his back to you, and you felt a jolt of recognition. He had grown into a young man, tall and confident, with his hair still matching Haley's, his eyes brighter than ever. But it was the way he carried himself that struck you most — he exuded a maturity that seemed to echo Hotch’s stoic demeanor, yet there was a warmth about him that was uniquely his own. Jack was much more like his mother than he would ever realize.

As he turned to look at you, a broad smile broke across his face, and your heart swelled at the sight. He stood, and for a moment, it felt like time had collapsed, erasing the years that had separated you. You rushed forward, wrapping your arms around him, and he embraced you tightly, a mix of nostalgia and warmth flooding over you both.

“Jack,” you whispered, stepping back to get a better look at him. “You’ve grown up so much.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that’s what happens when you turn eighteen,” he replied, a hint of playful sarcasm in his voice, but the joy in his eyes was unmistakable. You were surprised by how deep his voice had gotten, still recalling the sweet sounds of the 11-year-old boy who had gone into witness protection.

You both settled into your seats, and the initial rush of excitement settled into a comfortable rhythm as you sipped your coffees. “How have you been?” you asked, genuine curiosity etched in your voice.

Jack hesitated, his expression growing serious. “It’s been tough since… since everything that happened. After we left witness protection, it was just Dad and me. We moved a lot at first but eventually settled down in Chicago. Dad tried his best, but it wasn’t easy.”

You nodded, your heart aching for him. “I can only imagine. How is he doing?”

Jack shrugged, glancing down at his cup. “He’s okay, I guess." He mumbled. "He doesn’t talk about you much, I don't think he can bring himself to let the memories resurface. But I can tell he misses you a lot. He still has all the pictures of us together. Sometimes, I catch him looking at them when he thinks I’m not paying attention.” His voice was thick with emotion, and you felt your heartache further.

Had Hotch been as miserable as you?

“I missed you both too,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But I don't know if I can bring myself to keep holding on to the past. Not as long as Hotch hasn’t reached out to me, I’m probably not going to contact him. At least not for my own well-being.” You sighed, knowing it was the right decision, but still beating yourself up for listening to your sensibility.

Jack’s gaze met yours, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “I get it. I just wanted to see you after all this time. You were like a mother to me after Mom…” His voice trailed off, and the pain in his eyes mirrored your own. You wondered if Hotch had ever talked about Haley, talked about what had happened to his mother, if Jack had ever gotten any answers?

You reached out, placing your hand over his. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I wish I could have been there for you both. I loved you both so much.”

“I know,” he said, squeezing your hand. “And that’s why I wanted to meet. I just—” he paused, searching for the right words. “I needed to know if you were okay. It’s been a long time, and you were always there for me.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, a mixture of sorrow and relief washing over you. “I’ve missed you more than I can say. You were such a bright light in my life, Jack. It’s been hard without you both.”

The conversation flowed naturally, filled with shared memories and the weight of unspoken emotions. You listened as Jack talked about his life since Hotch had stepped into the world of politics — his own struggles, school, feeling like his friends didn't know the real him, the challenges of growing up without a mother, and the bond he still cherished with his father. It felt like they never left.

“I think Dad thought he was protecting me by not talking about you. But I needed to know about you, how you were doing. I needed to know you were okay.” He confessed, his eyes earnest. “He was always so focused on keeping me safe that he didn’t realize how much I missed you. How much he missed you.”

The warmth of Jack’s words wrapped around you, reassuring you that your bond hadn’t faded, even in the years apart. You shared stories, laughing softly at the memories of days long gone. The sun filtered through the café windows, casting a golden glow over the two of you, illuminating the path of healing you both needed.

As the café buzzed around you, it felt like a sanctuary, a safe space where the past and present intertwined, reminding you of the love that had once filled your life. This was a step forward, a chance to heal the wounds that had lingered for too long.

In that moment, sitting across from Jack, you realized that while the scars of the past might never fully fade, the possibility of rebuilding a future was within reach. Maybe not with Hotch, but potentially regain contact and a relationship with Jack.

“Let’s not let this much time pass before we see each other again,” you suggested, your heart lifting at the idea of keeping this connection alive.

“Definitely. You can count on it,” Jack promised, and as you both exchanged a smile, the weight of your shared history felt a little lighter, the hope for what was to come a little brighter.

The sun streamed through the windows of your office, casting a gentle glow on the stacks of case files and the photographs of the BAU team adorning your walls. You leaned back in your chair, still buzzing from your meeting with Jack, your heart lighter after the emotional reunion. The warmth of yesterday's trip to the café lingered in your mind, a comfort amidst the chaotic world of profiling and criminal behavior.

Just as you began to focus on the case at hand, there was a soft knock on your door. You looked up to see Emily stepping in, a slight frown creasing her forehead. She crossed the room and sat down in one of the chairs in front of your desk.

“Hey,” she said, her tone catching your attention. “I just got off the phone with the Director. He wants the BAU to assist with a case involving a politician in Congress.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of Congress, knowing potentially what that could mean, and you held your breath, bracing for the inevitable connection. “Do they have any details yet?”

Emily nodded, her eyes searching yours. “Not much. It seems there’s been some suspicious activity surrounding him, but the Director wanted us to prioritize this. I thought I should let you know, especially given the possibility of running into Hotch.”

You felt a pang in your chest at the mention of his name, but you pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand. “So, we’re not profiling Hotch, then?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady with a joke, masking the swirl of emotions rising within you.

“No, he’s not involved at all with this case actually,” Emily clarified, crossing her arms. “But with him being in the spotlight, there’s a chance we might see him around, especially if the investigation takes us to other parts of D.C. or if he’s involved in any press events while we're at Congress.”

You nodded, absorbing the information. “Right. I guess I should prepare myself for that possibility.” Your heart raced at the thought, the image of him on the television still fresh in your mind. The last few weeks of seeing him on the news had stirred up a mix of longing and unresolved feelings, and now the idea of encountering him face-to-face was both thrilling and terrifying.

“Are you okay with this?” Emily asked, her gaze softening with concern. “I know seeing him might bring up some stuff.”

You took a deep breath, weighing your emotions. “I’ll be fine. I have to be. We have a job to do, and I can’t let my feelings get in the way of that.” You tried to sound confident, but uncertainty crept in.

Emily smiled, a mix of support and understanding shining in her eyes. “I know you’re strong. Just remember, we’re in this together. And if it gets overwhelming, I’m right here.”

“Thanks, Em. I appreciate that.” You felt a swell of gratitude for her unwavering support. “Let’s get the team together and see what we can dig up on this case.”

Emily nodded, pushing herself up from the chair. “I’ll gather everyone for a briefing. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

As she left your office, you couldn’t shake the feeling of impending change in the air. The thought of the case intertwined with the possibility of seeing Hotch again sent your mind racing. There was a part of you that yearned to see him, to hear his voice again, but another part was afraid of what it might mean for the rehabilitation of your heart shattered.

After a few moments, you collected yourself and headed to the conference room, determined to focus on the task ahead. You were a profiler, after all, and you wouldn’t let personal feelings cloud your judgment. But as you stepped into the room and looked at your team, the looming presence of Hotch hung over you like a shadow.

The bustling atmosphere of Congress was overwhelming, the echo of voices mingling with the rustle of papers and the faint sounds of distant conversations, as crowds of people moved past you every single second. Somehow you hadn't thought the building would be this busy.

You moved through the maze of hallways, the weight of the case hanging over you like a heavy cloud. After an intense briefing with the team and several hours of sifting through documents, you decided a quick coffee break was necessary. It was a small reprieve, a moment to gather your thoughts before diving back into the investigation.

As you stepped into the crowded café, the rich aroma of coffee filled your senses, providing a brief comfort. As you waited for your order you glanced around, noting the throngs of aides and politicians, some deep in conversation, others lost in their phones. After what felt like an eternity, you finally received your drink, you ordered a cappuccino, absently stirring the foam as you made your way back toward the senator’s office.

Navigating the marble corridors was not easy, you focused, trying to remember the way you had come from. The noise of the café faded behind you as you moved further away, and the hum of energy around you began to fade as you thought about the case details you had just discussed with your team. But as you rounded a corner, lost in thought, everything changed in an instant.

There, just a few feet away, stood Aaron Hotchner. Your Aaron.

Time seemed to freeze. The world around you faded into a blur, and all you could see was him. He looked older nothing like he had looked on the TV, more refined, better even, yet he still carried that familiar intensity in his dark eyes. It was as if the years had melted away, and you were right back to those last moments before he disappeared from your life. Your heart raced, the mix of emotions overwhelming as you locked eyes with him.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved, caught in an electric silence that stretched between you. The familiar ache of longing hit you hard in the chest, twisting your stomach into knots. Memories rushed back — laughter, warmth, the comfort of his presence — but so did the pain of his absence and the betrayal you felt when he left.

In your shock, you didn’t realize your hand had loosened its grip on the coffee cup until it slipped from your fingers. The porcelain collided with the polished floor, shattering into a million tiny pieces, the sound echoing loudly in the otherwise quiet hallway. The hot liquid spilled out, soaking into the pristine marble and staining the floor with brown patches.

“Oh God,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. You stepped back, embarrassment flooding your cheeks, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from him.

Hotch said your name, his voice low and steady, yet laced with an emotion that mirrored your own shock. He took a cautious step toward you, as if afraid you might disappear again. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I,” you managed, your voice trembling as you fought to regain your composure. But the words felt inadequate, too mundane for the weight of the moment. A wave of emotion crashed over you, and the dam holding back your feelings began to crumble. “Do you even realize what you put me through, Aaron? Do you know how many nights I spent wondering if you were dead or alive? How many times I replayed those last moments in my mind, wishing I could have changed things?”

Hotch’s expression shifted, pain flashing across his face. “I never wanted to hurt you. I thought I was doing what was best for Jack!”

“Best for Jack?” you repeated incredulously, your voice rising with each word. “What about me? What about my feelings? You just left! You abandoned me without so much as a goodbye! I had to rebuild my life without you, and all you can say is you were trying to protect him. It doesn’t make any sense!”

He took a step forward, frustration mingling with sadness in his eyes. “I had no choice! I had to keep you both safe! Do you really think I wanted to leave you behind? You think it was easy for me? It wasn’t! I’ve thought about you every single day!”

The sincerity in his voice pierced through your anger, but you couldn’t let it go. “It’s too little, too late, Aaron! You can’t just show up out of nowhere after six years and expect everything to be okay. You made your choice!”

“I never stopped loving you!” he shouted, his voice filled with raw emotion. The admission hung between you, heavy and charged, and you felt your heart skip a beat.

You stepped closer, eyes locked onto his, fueled by a mix of anger and disbelief. “How can you say that? You left me! You made a choice, and you chose to protect your son over me. I had to learn to live with that — learn to live without you!”

“And it killed me! I had to protect my family, and in doing so, I destroyed my own happiness. But you have to know, you were always in my heart. I never wanted to hurt you!” His voice softened slightly, the intensity shifting to desperation. “I thought you’d move on, that you’d find someone better who could give you what you deserve.”

“Better?” you scoffed, your anger giving way to an ache in your chest. “You think I wanted anyone else? No one could ever compare to you, Aaron. I spent years waiting for you, hoping you’d come back, that we could fix this.”

He took a step closer, closing the distance between you. “Then why didn’t you reach out? Why didn’t you try to find me?”

“Because you made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me!” You shot back, tears of frustration burning your eyes. “I had to respect your choice, but I thought you’d at least have the decency to contact me after everything we went through together!”

“I didn’t want to put you in danger! I thought it was for the best!” His voice rose again, echoing through the hallway, but there was a desperate plea beneath his anger.

“Best for who, Aaron?” you demanded, your emotions spilling over. “You think running for Congress is going to fix everything? You think I want to see you on TV every day, talking about policies and values when all I want is to talk to you about us?”

Before you could finish your thought, he closed the gap between you in an instant, grasping your arms gently but firmly. The intensity in his eyes held you captive, and then he kissed you. It was a collision of pent-up emotions, a heated, desperate kiss that spoke of everything unsaid. Your lips pressed against his, teeth grazing against teeth, and for a moment, the world around you faded into the background.

You lost yourself in the kiss, a whirlwind of anger, longing, and the familiar warmth that had always existed between you. It felt like no time had passed at all, yet every moment you had spent apart surged back, filling the space with an urgency you hadn’t felt in years.

Without breaking the kiss, you found yourselves moving, bodies instinctively drawn toward his office down the hall, Hotch leading the way. The door stood ajar, but you barely registered it as you stumbled inside, Hotch pulling you in after him. He nudged the door shut with his foot, the soft click of the latch echoing in the silence as he pressed you against it.

You barely noticed the cluttered desk or the framed photographs lining the walls. All that mattered was the heat radiating from him, the way his hands cupped your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. He kissed you again, deeper this time, a fierce claim that made your heart race.

With each touch, the tension from earlier seemed to dissolve, leaving only the intoxicating rush of being so close again. You could feel the weight of his desperation, the years of longing that had built up between you, igniting a fire within you that had never truly gone out.

Finally, as you both breathed heavily against each other, he stepped back slightly, just enough to turn the lock behind him. The finality of the action made your heart pound even harder, the implications of this moment crashing down around you.

Before you knew it, Hotch crashed his lips into yours once again.

“Goddamn it, you’re so fucking wet,” he muttered into your neck, as he moved his hand under your skirt, you could feel his smirk against your skin. He was kissing you again, his fingers sliding up your body until they reached your breasts. You arched back into him with a soft sigh of pleasure, your hips rolling against his growing erection. You could feel how much he wanted you and it made you even more desperate for him.

You broke away from the kiss, staring up at him through half-lidded eyes. “Fuck me,” you said your voice sounded rough, still thick with lust from the kiss. You could see the flicker of pleasure that danced across his face, the fire burning in his eyes when he heard your words.

He didn’t speak though, he just pushed you back against his desk and as your ass met the wooden edge he lifted you up onto it by your things. The movement made your skirt ride up further, you tried to pull it back down out of instinct, but Hotch stopped you with a firm grip on your wrist. You gasped when his hands moved to grab the edge of your panties as he ripped them off. That had always been his favorite thing to do. Nothing had changed.

You barely had a chance to catch your breath before he had two fingers buried deep inside your cunt. “Fuck,” you hissed against his lips. He added a third finger and you gasped, your nails clawing into his back as you braced yourself, pleasure radiating through your body. You were already close to coming, desperate from the lack of a man's touch, he’d only been fingering you for a few seconds, but it was a much-needed release that you hadn't realized you had needed. He was determined to make you cum, was going to make you cum in his office, on his desk. You truly hoped that his door was locked.

Hotch leaned in and kissed you again, sucking at your bottom lip and then moving down to your neck. He bit into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, you moaned in response. Your legs spread around him and he groaned as you rocked your hips against his hand, trying so desperately to chase your release.

“Fuck, I need to get inside you,” he muttered against your skin. "I need to feel that pussy again. My pussy." He growled.

You felt a shiver run through your body at his words. “Please,” you begged, “now.”

You didn’t know if you unbuttoned his pants or he did, but somehow they were already around his ankles and he was pushing into you. His cock pulsed as he bottomed out, clouding your vision with the pure bliss from finally feeling him again. You let out a breathless moan as he stretched you out. It had been way too long since you'd felt the touch of a man you thought. His touch. Your hands slid down his back trying to pull him closer in an attempt to push him deeper inside of you. He groaned as he started to thrust into you. You felt every ridge of his cock as he moved.

The rhythm was hard and fast, your skin slapping together in loud claps. Your pussy was dripping, slick with wetness, your muscles clenching around him with every thrust as if you were trying to lock him in place inside your heat. You cried out when he pushed you down flat on his desk, his arms wrapped around your body as he started fucking you with the raw essence of an animal. The pleasure ran through your head and you nearly came right there.

Hotch grabbed your hair and yanked your head back. “You’re going to cum on my cock, aren’t you?” He hissed through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” you hissed, trying to move your hips under him. Your teeth gritted, eyes rolling back into your head as your breathing sped up, almost hyperventilating from the immense pleasure.

“You like being fucked on my desk, don’t you?”

“Fuck,” you moaned.

He slammed into you and then stilled. You whined in frustration as he held still inside of you. “Tell me. Use your words!”

“Yes sir,” you agreed, hoping it would get him to start moving again. It worked like a charm and he quickly slammed into you once more before fucking you into oblivion again. Hotch hit your G-spot with every thrust, you could feel your orgasm building up inside, the knot tightening, dangerously close to snapping in half. You felt him swell inside of you, his cock pushing into you harder and faster than before, as his thighs started vibration, you knew he was close too.

He leaned down over you and kissed you as you came. He swallowed down your cries as his hips stuttered. His cock felt like it was going to split you in half, but it felt so good as it sent you into a new level of pleasure. He came hard, hot liquid filling you up, you clung to his shoulders and cried out again as he groaned into your mouth.

Hotch pulled away slowly, his breath ragged as he held you close for a moment longer. The heat of the moment lingered in the air, but as he took a step back, you felt the loss of his warmth immediately. He gently helped you shift into a sitting position on the edge of his desk, his hands steadying you as you settled.

He moved to stand between your legs, the space filled with unspoken words and the weight of years apart. His eyes searched yours, an intensity in his gaze that made your heart flutter. Hotch cupped your face, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheekbones.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. The intimacy of the gesture, so simple yet so profound, stirred something deep within you. It felt as though he had never left, as if no time had passed at all since that fateful day in his office so many years ago where he had just been... gone.

He pressed tender kisses to your lips, each one a promise, a reassurance that this moment was real. You leaned into him, surrendering to the familiar comfort of his presence as you wrapped your arms around his torso, resting your head against his chest. You let the tears that had been building up finally spill over. They rolled down your cheeks, mingling with the remnants of the heat that still pulsed between you.

“I… I met up with Jack,” you admitted your voice barely above a whisper, laden with emotion. The moment hung heavy in the air. You could see the flicker of surprise in Hotch’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by understanding. “He’s grown up so much. He’s… he's an adult now.”

Hotch’s expression softened, a mix of pride and sadness flickering across his features. “He’s always been a remarkable kid,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m glad you two were able to reconnect.”

“I missed you both so much,” you confessed, the weight of your words crashing over you like a wave. The years of longing, the nights spent wondering about him and Jack, came rushing back. “It’s been so hard, Aaron. Watching you on TV, hearing you talk about your values and the future... all I wanted was to be a part of that future again.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I know. I wanted to reach out so many times, but I didn’t know if I was worth it to you. I thought you’d moved on. Didn't want to disrupt your life.”

You shook your head, a mix of determination and vulnerability surging within you. “I never moved on. I just learned to live without you. But I don’t want to do that anymore.”

Hotch stepped closer again, his hands still cradling your face as if he were afraid you might disappear. “Then let’s try again,” he said softly, the sincerity in his voice melting the last remnants of doubt lingering in your heart. “Let’s see if we can make this work, for us and for Jack.”

You swallowed hard, hope igniting within you like a flame. “I want that,” you whispered, a smile breaking through your tears. “I really want that.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours once more, the kiss gentle but filled with an undercurrent of promise. It was a reaffirmation of everything you both had lost and everything you hoped to regain. In that moment, surrounded by the chaos of the world outside, you felt a sense of peace and belonging you hadn’t experienced in years.

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” he said, pulling back slightly to meet your gaze, his eyes bright with determination. “We’ll figure this out together.”

With your heart full and tears still glistening in your eyes, you nodded. For the first time in years, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders. The future ahead felt uncertain, but for the first time, it was a future you were excited to face — together.

@vikingstoner69

567 notes · View notes

platinumaspiration · 1 year ago

Text

Howdy, Simmers! I'm thrilled to present the Ultimate 4T2 Clay Hair Default Replacement Collection, designed to give your Sims a fresh and fabulous new look effortlessly! 💇‍♀️💇‍♂️✨

It's time to redefine Sim style – one fabulous hairstyle at a time. Get ready for a hair revolution with The Ultimate 4T2 Clay Hair DR Collection! 💖🌟

🍡Download - LC | MF 🍡

Updates folder - SFS | MF updated 26 Oct 2024

The nitty gritty details and disclaimers:

This is an entire collection that is interwoven with each other. Hair is repositoried to different ages, genders, defaults, and even hidden toddler hair. It's highly recommended that the collection stay intact and that you have the Ultimate Collection or all EP/SP. Recategorizers do not work with this collection

Not all hair works with each sims' faces and not all sims' faces work with each hair. So keep in mind foreheads, cheeks and ears may poke out. Previews are available at LordCrumps.com

The collection includes add ons that may require the defaults and are flagged as "Store Edition" hair. TS4 hairs range from base game to the most recent Stuff Pack (Home Chef Hustle). More hair may be included as add ons in the future.

Enable Store Edition icon

I wouldn't convert some hair without their outfit counterparts. Please make sure to remove conflicts. The outfits include:

ubodymascotknight_EP7 mbodysuperninja pubodybadger_badger pubodybadger_brown ubodycommercialmascot_buns ubodysocialbunny servo ubodycowmascot (a brighter/whiter version courtesy of tvickiesims)

Most of these hairs exist already in the realm of the community as custom hairstyles. Any of my hair previously converted (shrink, servo, santa hat, etc) should be removed; they'll be included in this collection.

TOU: Please feel free to use these as a template for your defaults and recolor the hair as you'd prefer for download purposes. I only ask that you do not reupload these original files (breaking down to packs, gender, etc) as they are intertwined and may not work without their exclusive counterparts. Please do not make these hairs as customs for reupload.

There are a few hair/items that use cc: credit: nolansims, sforzinda, arethabee

This took about... 8 months to complete. I've (re)converted all of these myself to my current expectations of my conversion content. This was play tested thoroughly over the course of that time. If there are any issues, please don't hesitate to send an ask. The file size is massive even compressed, but to be honest it's pretty decent for 500+ hair.

Under the cut are some personal sappy thank you notes that I want to share publicly:

Thank you to the defaulters at sims2defaults database for all your work! Just be kind if/when you tear into it lol

A humongous thank you to those whom have followed and been a part of my journey as a cc creator/converter. This inadvertently marks a huge follower milestone as well and I'm so happy that you all have been a part of this with me for the past (almost) 3 years!

I don't think I would have done this without meeting @lordcrumps over a year ago and joining in his journey for the ultimate 4t2 default collection. He's a true gentleman and scholar 🧐Thank you for play testing, collaborating, and above all, being one of my bestest of friends and confidant.

And, I would never ever had completed this without @tvickiesims. To think she raised me from a terrible toddler right into an angsty teen within that 8 months and still remained a true and close friend through all of it. Thank you for your extensive and detailed play testing, your companionship when I fall apart, and for being my twin flame 🤗

2K notes · View notes

vyzz-undercover · 1 month ago

Text

someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(8,800ish words) (holy fucking kill me mate)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

———————————————————————————————————

hi guys :3 guess what i got you all good im not dead,,, the gods have let me live another fateful fortnight (fortnite) also i love you all so so so much pls enjoy!!!! @moodymisty, @lemon-russ, @bispecsual, @the-raven-lady, @egrets-not-regrets, @pluvio-tea, @kit-williams, @thevoidscreams, @mothiir, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sinistermojo, @beckyninja, @passionofthesith, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @allergymoose, @scriberye, @yestheantichrist, @ma1dmer, @cucunot!!! if anyone wants off or on taglist lmk!!! im more than happy to adjust this in post OK BYE ILY ALL AGAINNNN!!!

———————————————————————————————————

There should be higher security in this wing, Cato notes.

But compared to the rest of the vessel, it's safe—as in, there's senior Admech's leaving their doors open while they buff out the scratches in their mechadendrites sort of safe. He bets seeing a mouse around here would cause a stir. Honestly, he can fully render the pict in his mind of some haughty Seneschal turning their nose up to his Primarch because of that.

Cato can imagine the exact following happening, 'eugh, why doesn't Lord Guilliman virus bomb the pipes? That's what I had done on my pissy little rowboat of a void ship!' in that nasally, all too predictable tone that every single bloody one of them seems to have bar maybe a few.

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

But it is safe. You're safe, here. He trusts his Primarch to ensure that for you. Being so cozy to Guilliman as a baseline certainly has its benefits. This place is good for you, unlike the bowels of the ship—where even Cato avoids going.

Not for any risk to his persons, of course. But simply because of the tightness of the hallways. And the stink of baseline sweat and oil that practically sticks to his senses for days afterward.

It's most certainly not because the low lumen count sends his mind wandering. And the flickering—damn those flickering lights—they make him uneasy. The impossible chance they'll flicker out and reveal a reality awash with fleshed decking is completely unrealistic. But still, down in those depths, he feels like he's stuck in a dying vessel, cracked at the bottom like a broken vase, leaking. Adrift, on a storm laden sea with the blackness pouring in—where within that black there is a barely perceptible colour in infinite abundance, like the phosphenes behind closed eyes—and there are eyes in that ocean—so, so many eyes, fixed with the glowing, molten hues of the warp itself; their shades a melted tapestry, a solvent thing, ever-changing.

Eyes and screaming. It sometimes returns to Cato like a bad case of tinnitus, ringing and shrill—but the mind crafts horror that pale reality in comparison, and in that wretched plane of existence those mental horrors bore real talons, and real hooves and real thought—and the caterwauling of its victims—his brothers—ever came from maws heaving and frothing in agony.

Cato hears himself stumble and slam a palm into the side wall to steady himself, but doesn't feel it. He feels like he's in free-fall, as if the ground has opened up and swallowed him hale and whole.

All time in that abominable realm was rendered simply nonexistent, without matter nor meaning to behold to any living creature. Naught but the notion of being practically alone and how chilling it was spiralling down the depthless lake of energy remained. No resistance of air lent to the sensation of plummeting, but he was sure he was for reason beyond any form of tongue. The distance was irrelevant and utterly unmeasurable. But the warp had no edge, no limit; and as it lacked a limit, the depth of him sinking was surely unbounded—just as it was eerily silent. A merciless wall of mute, dark unknown which swallowed all whole under it's cresting wave of solitude. Mute except the wailing, like song—song of sheer coincidence, where so many voices in unison chances harmony by mathematics beyond comprehension.

The sour taste on his tongue drags him loose of the claws about his mind.

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

Cold, unforgiving steel walling like a soothing downpour on his nerves.

Cato groans as he rights himself, shaking his head, and then rolls his tongue around his mouth; gagging a little at the bitter, acrid aftertaste of his Betcher's gland acting on instinct.

He'd thought himself largely past this now. It had been so long since it happened, and Cato tries, he tries so painfully hard not to imagine the same thing happening here, because he's okay, you're okay—nothing would try to take this ship.

The vile taste on his tongue annoys him, because he'd scrubbed his teeth raw in an effort to seem as polished as he could; and now his tongue probably stinks like an empty las cartridge.

He spits on the floor and straightens up, it's fine—at least that's what he tells himself. You're close, and you're safe and that's all the encouragement he needs to fall back into step.

Cato takes a few strides down the corridor towards your quarters before realising something rather important.

He reaches into the folds of his rest attire and practically yanks out a sheathed knife.

It'd be closer to a dagger to you, and he doubts you know how to use it, but—but—

He wants to give it to you.

It's what he'd like to receive, at least. After all, it is what he was given, once.

The smith on Talassar is long dead, from age or sickness, but it matters little. All that matters is that Cato had received it ages ago when he'd yet to make anything of himself and he wants your hands to know its weight. You never carry weapons to diplomatic ventures in the past, and you've told him as much, but he gathers it's because there's never been place for you to put them on your persons in those stupid outfits of yours.

It's a little bit brutish of a gift, yes, he's well aware. But there's no possibility of bringing any sort of cliche boon to your door, like flowers, or something of the sort. Or whatever those waifs of yore would demand as a courting gift.

He doesn't even realise he's continued walking until he's stopped and standing outside your chamber like a kicked hound.

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

He knows the universal override to all the input pads, but there's something seemingly rooting him to the spot.

The nervousness hesitation he feels regarding seeing you is a lingering problem—the longer he stays beyond the confides of your room only adds to the chances of being caught. And he's not about to wait for hours outside for a hint you're actually in there. He has right to suspect you are, but the possibility of a serf being there instead of you is unrealistic but present. Actually no, he's sure that a cleaning serf would not lock the door.

So, finally, he raps a knuckle against the door and sets his footing to a martial stance.

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

There's a clear surprise that paints across your face as he stares down at you, before it dissolves into a small, flustered smile.

His hands twitch where they hang by his sides, itching to reach for the dagger he wants to give you. He had planned how he'd do this on the way here. Thought it through and prepared, rolling it over and over in his head. And yet, actually having you before him throws any precedent out the nearest air-lock.

You're not in any sort of prim and proper way—you're in bedding clothes, more than anything: pants and a top.

The trousers are a light shade of cyan, loose around your calves but more form fitting around your thighs. Your hips seeming to be the only thing holding the pants up from showing the warm, smooth skin beneath; that, and a small thread tied in a crude bow. Your tunic is more of a inched stola, low necked enough that he can sort of see the top of your breasts.

"I didn't.. uh," you mumble. "I didn't expect you so soon."

He knows he's earlier than he promised, but he grunts in answer and looks over your shoulder.

You blink, "What?"

"Am I to wait out here all cycle, then?"

A small 'oh, right—sorry' from you is all he receives before you take a step back to allow him entrance.

When the door slides shut and locks behind him, Cato notes the lack on downlight activated. Everything is hazed in a moody, misty (hi) sort of warm, amber glow from the candles you've left burning. He thankfully wrestles down the urge to stand there scenting the air with his lip curled up like a beast. Trying not to linger on the abundant stink of you, you, you on everything, pervading every sense he has. Promising himself he won't smother into your pillows and start humping them like a rabid dog.

He distracts himself by cataloguing his surroundings. Cato has consistently focused on utilitarianism over all else, and it shows in his room. His room is accessorised in the style befitting of his many years and achievements; with walls lined with trophies and weaponry made by the best of the Imperium. It contains just the basic necessities required: a work area, a seat, a couple of lights, an agreeably Astartes-sized cot at the middle, and close to it, a dependable incense holder.

Your room is much smaller—but the ensuite appears the same, though. Which Cato doesn't know how to feel about. He surmises it was likely a converted Captain's quarters. It's not standard issue, and neither are the copious amounts of, for lack of a better word, trinkets. But he supposes being the Primarch's favourite little diplomat-bookkeeper-pet-thing is a title full of unseemly rewards. His Father has a strange, uncouth way of interacting with baselines, and he doesn't dare linger on the hypocrisy behind that thought coming from him standing in your private quarters.

Be as that may, he still feels enormous standing there in the cramped space between you, the bed, and the desk behind you, unimpressed at the amount of clothing bundled near his feet.

You stand in your own mess without any hint of shame. A silent Ambassador is typically a welcomed novelty, but a silent you makes Cato jumpy.

You near and try to urge him to lean down, clearly trying to coax a kiss from him.

"Water," he says abruptly.

You don't seem to be listening, just looking at him with a distracted sort of fascination—then the request clicks, and you stumble into the bathroom and run the tap.

He hears the glass he's to be drinking from clink with the hardware before it fills, and them you step out and close to him to hand it over.

He takes a big gulp and swishes it around his mouth before swallowing, and gladly the wretched sourness of lingering acid is gone.

With the threat of burning your little nagging trap gone—and you none the wiser to the fact he's an Ultramarine who can, in-fact, spit acid—he rears down and gives you what you'd sought.

A slow kiss, nice and sweet and gentle; and he closes his eyes this time, in preparation.

You grin against his mouth and pull back after, and he smiles a tiny bit at the way your lips are a little redder.

Cato huffs in satisfaction and straightens back up, going in for another draught of water.

"I am surprised you live in squalor, despite all the benefits of your station," he murmurs offhandedly, looking aside the rim at the room once more between sculling down the rest of the cup.

You frown, and glance about the room, "It's not that bad."

"It looks like a drop zone," Cato grumbles, holding out the empty glass—and you take it, while he's fixed on staring disapprovingly at the messy stacks of data-slates stacked and leaning like two great spires. "Have you no discipline? No self-respect?"

"Clearly not," you mumble and glare at him, eyeing him up, then down, then up again with a judgmental leer. Suddenly, something about the situation is amusing to you—and you snort.

Cato scowls, crossing his dense arms over his chest, "And what's that suppose to mean?"

"Nothing," you huff.

He glares back at you in silence as you turn and set the glass upon the desk—what little free space there is, in that shitstorm bundle of random work.

"I just think it's funny that you say that," you start again abruptly, rounding about to look at him. "Given the circumstances."

The scoff that leaves him is nigh a bark, "Exceptional circumstances."

You snort amusedly, "So where's your discipline and self-respect?"

"Somewhere between your thighs," he says, and prides in the begrudgingly fought-back smile he earns out of you with it.

He sits himself down on the side of the bed and continues priding to himself at the wit of the remark he made.

Cato relishes in the moment, simple as it is—you're oblivious to his own troubles and there's a sweet, lulling sense of comfort in that.

"You're a real class act," You pout, manoeuvring your rear up onto the desk inelegantly. Something tumbles to the floor to accommodate, but you're evidently unbothered. Your pants ride down at the change just enough that it put the part where your hip met leg on display. Just the temptation has him fiending off an insidious amount of lust.

He wonders if it'll hold up against an Astartes fucking you on it. But it's not bolted down, so he doubts that.

The bed will hold, though. And even if it doesn't, he'll still manage—he's sure he'll take every bit of you he can, on every surface he can manage. It's just a matter of time before he goes down the checklist, really.

Cato, understandably, groans long and low at the thought.

"Something the matter, Commander?" You intone with an annoyingly obvious faux-stupidity, crossing your legs and tilting your head a little.

"No," he rasps, and tears his gaze from your hip.

You eye him, "You look a little stiff."

He grumbles, and reaches into the breast of his robes.

The sheathed dagger looks flimsy in his muscle and callous laced palm, and when he holds it out to you, you look bemused.

Your brow arches up and you scowl a little, "What's that for?"

"You," he harrumphs, and turns away. Then Cato cannot, for the life of him, look back at your eyes—so he fixes his stare at your sandals set by one another at the door frame.

A little giddy huff leaves you as he watches you scoot off the desk top and reach for the weapon in his peripheral vision.

"You didn't have to," you coo, wrapping your small fingers around the hilt and freeing the blade from its casing. A little kiss hits his cheek and then he hears the gleam of it being loosed—he'd polished the time-dulled filigree to a mirror finish in preparation for gifting you, and even sharpened it back to a killing edge.

Your sweet hum of fascination as he sees the reflected candlelight dancing off the steel has him finally look back at you.

There's a big smile on your face, and your cheeks are a little red—and it's exactly the reaction he was after.

Cato tips his chin up, noble in his smugness, and smiles back.

"It's lovely, but—" you say, "I remember having told you before I can't wear weapons."

He pouts, and then he's sour again, "There's a belt loop on this one so that you can."

"I don't wear them for a reason," you digress.

"What reason?"

"Because it looks bad for a diplomat to do so."

Cato huffs petulantly, "That's not good enough."

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

"It's just one knife," He grunts, and gestures at you vaguely. "Why not put it on the inside of your thigh?"

And for some reason a few neurones misfire in his head at the thought of his dagger being so, so close to your—

"Do me a favour, Sicarius," you simper abruptly, as if there's a hidden punchline to the entire conversation he's yet to discover, "Look under the bed."

Cato scowls, but ultimately allows the request, putting one big palm on the duvet to leer down.

Oh, that's—that's a small fortune of ceremonial weaponry.

"Throne, woman," he starts, still looking and a bit stunned. "Why? Do you just collect all these? You don't hang them up, or anything?"

"I don't collect them willingly," you mumble, "They're just... handed to me, most of the time. Sometimes by dignitaries, a few by other Astartes. I don't understand it much, either."

Cato arches lower and reaches his free hand out to the gilded sheath of a curved sword, blue and gold and embossed with jewels. It's crusade-era levels of ancient—and Cato swears he'd seen it upon the lobby wall before the broad doors of Guilliman's chambers. That, and the hundreds of other favoured tools of war his Primarch so loved to display. Some hadn't been touched since the heresy, but still. Their nostalgic sentiments held strong. He supposes age does that to someone. Even for someone as noble and mindful as his Father.

Cato purses his lips as he lays a hand on the sword and tugs it free from the pile with ease.

He holds it up as he rights himself back on the bed and scowls, "This is—"

"I know," you sigh, and your hand braces against the side of your neck as you tut, "He insisted."

"He insisted?"

"He insisted," you grumble, and Cato tries hard not to find the embarrassed colour on your cheeks painfully endearing. "I said I wouldn't wear it, but he said it'd be a good thing to keep 'incase of emergencies', or something."

"Guilliman is right," Cato says sourly, placing the sword back on the ground and using his heel to shuck it backwards back under the bed. "You're easily assailable."

"You're the fifth Astartes to say that to me," Your face scrunches up, "I feel like it's an insult at this point."

"It's a valid observation," he shoots back. "You may as well be held together with silk and ribbons—like some spoilt little princess. You should expect the fanfare with that behaviour."

You leave his dagger on the desk behind you and take a few bold steps closer to him, crossing your arms over your chest; scowling as you say, "Oh, so you're the knight in shining armour here, then?"

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

He raises a brow and straightens up a bit, "Yes—yes, it is."

He likes the haughty attitude you get when you're subtly seething, he likes the little scowl you wear, and the tiny crease that forms on your nose. It gets his blood up, and warp damn him if he doesn't thrill at the slightest chance to have you gratifying his antics.

"Well, you got a pretty good reward for your troubles."

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

Your brow quirks sourly, and you cross your arms over your chest.

"Groxshit," you grumble.

Ah, so it's time for lying now. You weren't desperate, no—you haven't ever raised your ass to let him mount you, you haven't groped his cock—you most certainly haven't ridden him like an unruly beast, taking your pleasure—letting him fuck your tight cunt full, time and time again.

He ought to remind you, he ought to get you flushed with the words—because he knows you'll squirm, dithering, bright red in the face and aching between the thighs.

Instead, he snorts loudly, "Shut up and come here."

"I don't think so," you laugh.

Cato growls and rolls his eyes, "Suit yourself."

Still sitting, he lifts the folds of his robes aside and works his arms out of the sleeves, baring himself aside from the underclothes hanging on his hips.

With another huff, Cato shuffles himself back up against the headboard, settling into the pillows. He locks his fingers together, raising them above his head, stretching tall and taut; huge chest bulging as a strained groan slips free from his throat, earning a chain of muted cracks from his back in reward of his efforts.

Your eyes trace his torso where you stand aside the bed. Studying the ports and ancient scars that draw up from his hips in mirrored pathways, linear and geometrically precise—utterly surgical. Their routes turned up the sides of his ribs, stopping high on his serratus anterior, dodging his pectorals and wrapping around to his deltoids; where your gaze stayed—eyeing the tattoo of an inverted omega he had gotten so very, very long ago. It's faded a little, but the upside down Ω is still well defined.

He's got your attention now.

You shuffle forward, half on the edge of the bed; and lean close, flickering your eyes up to his—as if seeking some sort of allowance.

"Disgustingly predictable," He scoffs, cocking his head and relaxing a bit.

Seeing an Astartes out of their armour always was something to behold for baselines. Ever eye-catching even to those who'd seen it a thousand times over. It garnered awe and fear; but that was the reason the Emperor made them so large in the first place. Aside from the practical benefits of throwing their weight around, their presence alone was intended to be physically intimidating as a means to dissuade the uncooperative from resisting and to scare off contest.

To you though, his bared form is a source of lust. The stink of it in the air has him toey and eager.

But it is, afterall, the first time you've had a good, close look at him in his entirety.

Cato preens at the flush he earns when he smirks at you.

"I won't stop you, you know."

"I hope not," You muse and lay a hand on his sternum, kneeling onto the bed and scooting close as your fingers graze over the dark spread of hair dusting across his chest.

You scan from the tops of his broad shoulders down the definition of muscle to the interfaces on his fused ribs; your eyes trailing for a brief second to his dense abdomen where the hair went even lower. Arrowing down his under-cloth. His entire body was marked with brutal scars of every kind. Some raised and old, others raw and sunken.

He'd indulge a question or two about their origins if asked—or well, if asked nicely.

Oh, that meagre cicatrix below his left pectoral? That was a Carnifex he had fought. It was five of them all at once single handedly, actually—and he only had his great Talassarian Tempest blade. It was a lucky mark from the beast. It died seconds later. He's just that good—he's Cato Sicarius, afterall. You made the right choice letting him have you, please tell him that he's the right choice.

Instead, you sink down against him and lie against his side, tracing the ports on his chest.

Arguably, this is just as satisfying to Cato as gloating waxing on and on about his many successes. Your warm little body tucked against his like a perfect fit, and the feel of your fingers around the thinner skin rimming his interfacing ports isn't bad, either. It feels strange, yes, but it's a different sort of sensation. It's acutely sensitive. He almost feels like he's about to shiver at it.

But then your attention shifts to raking against the grain of the hair on his chest.

"I usually have it burned away," he says abruptly, because he's somewhat bemused by your fascination. Still, he puffs his chest out a little. "To allow greater synergy with my body-glove."

"Really?" You laugh, and it's a prettier sound than carillon bells to Cato's ears—all the while pawing at a thick hunk of his pectoral, "They toast you?"

"Only a single passing," Cato admits, "It doesn't hurt—stinks though. And then it's all hosed off."

You hum in acknowledgement and let your hand wander down his middle, following the trail of fluffy, coarse hair.

"Interesting," you hum, fingers tracing the path, stopping only when you're grazing just shy of the top wrap of his undercloth. "You feel a bit like a fur rug here."

Cato breathes in slowly, "Don't test your luck."

"It's an entirely valid statement, how am I testing my luck?" You grumble, glowering at him as you pull away.

"You ought to be reprimanded for insubordination," He says with a steely, disciplinary intonation, but the threat's hollow and you're seemingly well aware of that. He leans in and pulls you close again as his touch sweeps down your legs. His nose buries into your hair, big hands appraising groping.

You set about kissing his cheek, smothering yourself against him.

The airy gasp that leaves you when he squeezes your ass makes you bold, apparently, because the next words you choose to say are; "Do you accept bribes?"

Cato's immediate theoretical response is a snarky 'No,' but then the heel of your palm is sliding up the side of his cock through the wrapped linen.

So, pointedly, he eagerly groans out, "Yes."

You simper up at him, before fussing with the fabric. Exposing the dense plain of his hip, tugging and un-pleating a little more until he's bared from the navel down.

His cock's so hard it nearly bats you across the cheek as it springs free. To which Cato snorts, not even trying to hide his amusement.

You flinch a little in surprise, a hint flustered, and eye the hard length of him as if it's personally affronted you.

He sits a little more upright, thighs spreading, presenting himself. Offering his big, sturdy quads as a cushion to lean on as you slowly pump him in a steady motion.

"Well?" Cato snarks, "Get on with the bribery then."

You pout at him, glancing back—and huff, "You smell like an apothecarium."

Cato grumbles to himself, slow to gather his words as he watches you ogle him, "If I had... known that you wanted to get that damn snout of yours so close, I wouldn't've used such harsh soaps."

You raise an eyebrow and pout, "Wonder if they're toxic to ingest."

"I doubt it," he starts, "But I guess there's only one way to find out."

Your fingers glide over his big thighs, dodging his ports and smoothing upwards to trace the old paths of his surgeries.

And even with all his stoic, anally neurotic merit, Cato can't stifle the small subvocal hum that escapes him as you flatten your tongue, licking a warm stripe up the side of his cock.

The feeling of it is staggeringly new, and he's absolutely elated at the view. It's half the appeal, even if there's no way you're getting anywhere near as much cock in you as your cunt allows.

You wrap your lips around the fat tip, keeping it in your mouth as you stroke the thick base of him with a grip that can't even meet around the width; balancing yourself better on your knees by putting the other hand on his thigh—the sleeve of your top slipping down your arm.

"This may be a better use for your mouth than diplomacy," He says as he lets out a low sigh, hips jerking forward with shallow movements in time to the bobbing of your mouth.

When you pull off to swipe away the glaze of spit and pre-cum accumulating on your chin, you lap your bottom lip and huff, "You are a prick, you know that?"

Despite being enamoured by the sight of you disheveled, he grumbles petulantly and says, "And you had to take your tongue off mine to say that."

You frown at him, then acquiesce with a petulant little grunt.

Then your mouth descends on him once more, rocking back and forth, letting gravity angle him in. All Cato can do is relish in the sensation, finding no room in his brain for anything else. Just the feeling of the wet heat of your mouth swallowing around him, and the swirling counterpoint of your tongue—eagerness in your gaze as it flicks up to find his again—Throne, that makes him groan straight away.

You hum around his length in response, the vibrations ricocheting through his nerves and up his spine blindingly. His other palm is suddenly against his forehead, a bit stunned from the bombardment of new pleasure.

Your little fingers dig fruitlessly into his thigh, making him hyperaware, sending him grinding forward a bit only to be rewarded with another lurching buzz of ecstasy. The hand pumping the base of him shifts away, and then small nails rake across his navel, then his hip, tracing a port; and he buries his face into the crook of his elbow to stifle a heavy moan. They're only meagre claws, yet the pressure is strangely comforting as you lap at the blood flushed underside of his glans.

Cato's aware his voice catches as he keens aloud, pulling his arm away from his face to rest his forearm on his hairline. He's simply just enjoying the soft, hot drag your mouth around his tip again.

But a reedy little whine snags his attention, catching him unaware that he had even closed his eyes in the first place.

When he finally opens them, he swoons. Hard. Your cheeks are a stunning maroon, and your previously focused gaze now looks hazy and desperate, utterly lost in the act. He hadn't been cognisant he'd put his hand on your head, either. But watching you sink down around him again and again is intoxicating. How your pink tongue peeks out to lathe over a raised vein when you pull off for air has him dizzy. Your other hand's drifted down your pants and between your thighs at some point when he'd been lost in his own pleasure, fingers curling inside yourself. A deep inhale makes it clear you're absolutely soaking. And he's well aware that it is a meagre substitute—still, the eagerness of you is adorable lurid.

Distantly, he wonders just how many times you've had that hand there in this bed. It's the scene of the crime, really. You'd already admitted to it—and he ought to make sure you're full of his fingers to keep yours where there should be. That is, if he could move. He can't find the will to even sit up higher, let alone move the hand he's been using to keep your head steady. But, he does have the mind to comb his fingers through your tresses, at least.

You seem to realise he's realised what you're doing and you whine again, forcing yourself to take his cock further.

Cato lets out an approving moan and hisses out a feckless string of curses, thighs tensing sharply as his senses stagger at the heat that suffuses his belly.

The sick temptation to spend himself in your sweet vile maw is nigh all consuming, but it's nothing compared to the fact he's far more convinced on dumping it in your womb. Anywhere else feels like an injustice to the fact he's able to fill you—because just like some fang-toothed warp-spawn abomination, you've opened the door and invited him in, so he can make as much of a wreck of you as he likes, or as much as you like.

He yanks you off him by the reigns he's made of your hair and you choke a little.

The small groan at the messy handling of the situation is a testament to how badly you're after his end, "Wh-why...?" you rasp, the efforts having made your voice a little rough; the mix of your drool and his precum giving your chin and lips a wet, glossy sheen.

"Because—" he starts, and he's surprised by how ragged he sounds to his own ears. "Because, there's better holes to empty it in."

The little disappointed sigh that escapes you as you lick your slick bottom lip makes him immediately change his mind.

"Have it your way then," he heaves, and shoves your head back down—instinctively chasing the rising tide and rocking forward into your quickly opening mouth.

His hand is tight in your hair now, fist tangling the strands in his grip as you let him thrust freely. Your own hand grabs the side of his hip as his tempo stutters. By the Emperor, his father would kill him if he could see this. But, damn—the sight of you like this is sin. He's so much bigger than you it looks obscene with you servicing him like this. You're a mess, gagging and tearing up, but making no attempt to pull away. It's depraved, but if you're so desperate for a load down your throat, who's Cato to say no? He's more than happy to give you exactly that—and just on time, he feels his balls tighten up—static rising out up his spine as a groan tears from his throat. Caught daft not a millisecond later by a bodily shudder blinding him in a hot rush.

Cato pants as the shivers subside in heavy throbs, filling your mouth. He pets your head as you swallow, at first—and then the pockets of your cheeks puff out. And suddenly you're cringing and scrambling off of him and into the ensuite. The tap starts up, then you do, and all he hears spitting and sputtering.

You stumble out looking like you'd eaten something sour, swiping your hand across your lips before saying, "That tasted horrible."

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

A bright, wry smile plasters itself on your features, "And?"

"And, if you want more," he begins, eyeing you. "You'll have to lose the rags, woman."

You straighten, eager��and promptly start to wrestle your top over your head, just to throw it at his face.

Cato grumbles at the rudeness periodically, before he starts sniffing the article. Vomeronasal organ having a momentary frenzy. It smells of warm you, and a little bit of sleep. Like an embrace, and—fuck, his spent cock twitches back to life. He really shouldn't behave like this. It makes him assume he looks savage. Even he feels strange. So he wretches your top off himself and tosses it somewhere to the left.

Watching you suddenly appear on the bed, fighting your way out of your pants is much more entertaining.

He likes the way you shimmy onto your back and fuss yourself free; and the way you practically lunge back close to him when you're finally bare.

You lean over him and grin, and Cato appreciatively drags a hand down your back, palming your ass.

Promptly, he rolls himself and drags you along. He groans theatrically as if you're fifty times the effort to move than you are, simply because he can. And the shifting of his bulk makes the bed shake enough that the stack of slates on the table across the room falter, and tumble to the floor in a loud clatter of sound.

On your back under him, he preens at the flushed surprise on your face.

"That was too loud—you're too loud," you heave.

"I'm too loud?" He grumbles, pinning your far smaller shape down. "Says you."

That stirs a groan out of you, at least, squirming while Cato drags his tongue up the side of your neck.

"Someone can still pass by and hear," you whine, "We shouldn't make that much—"

"I doubt it," he grunts, cutting you off as he slides off the mattress and drags you to the lip of it. "We have a bed all to ourselves. Your bed—in your quarters, with six inches of steel in the way, might I add. They'd have to stand at the door to listen."

He flips you over, pressing you front down—slumping against you on his knees to grant a rough grind or two to make sure you're hyperaware of his thick erection plastered against your ass. Your legs kick out and you wriggle, a series of ragged gasps leaving you as you endure the onslaught. A small lick here, a small lick there—huffing and panting to stir an empathic response. Winding you up to writhe and flush as he groans next to your ear, only to start chuffing out mean spirited laughter when you moan back.

"See, you don't really care about anyone hearing, do you?" He rasps out against your throat before sucking the skin over a thudding little artery. "You're not sworn to chastity. They might just think, 'oh, the Ambassador's found another poor soul to suck the semen out of, shame,' or the likes."

"I don't know how you do it," You scoff, breathing hard into the covers as he pulls away and grabs you by the hips to hoist your rear up into that perfect taunting arch he remembers so well from the cabin. Aptly presenting yourself on your knees at mounting-height while he stands.

"Do what?"

You laugh, "Manage to find the worst possible thing to say every time."

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

Taking himself in hand, he angles the tip of his cock to kiss the soft rim of your entrance. And Throne, Cato's ecstatic. He finally gets to fill in the gaps of what he should've seen back in the cabin the first time. The theatrics you'd hidden under rags and your own embarrassment.

He hears the cartilage in your gullet click when you swallow dryly and grumble, "Fine then, but don't say I didn't—"

You're rudely interrupted by your own shuddering moan when he starts sliding into you, and Cato's never been happier to shut you up.

He bottoms out in you in one smooth thrust, and the sound you make next is a stellar thing. An eager, warbling 'Sicarius–' as his cockhead jars right up against your cervix. Warm, fluttering muscles around his length and the mewling of a whorish little Ambassador are ever a perfect combination.

But he wants to be closer—so, so much closer; he wants you pressed to his front, so he can absolutely smother himself against you. He wants to burn the feeling of you and him into his edict memory, so nothing can untangle it from him.

Cato has to bend himself at an awkward angle to manage it, but he's well aware of the fact he can manage a free hand to draw lethargic circles on your belly.

"And if they can hear, it's not like anyone will believe them," he pants, a little chuff of laughter chasing his words, looking down at your face buried in the sheets. "They'll think you're a busted piston, or maybe a whining pipe."

"You're such a—" you start as his hand slides slowly down your navel, and your voice tapers off, "You're a-ah..." he dips his fingers between your thighs, and you moan, "Thro—oh—ne..."

His pointer and ring finger spread the hooded peak of your folds, then the middle moves in and rolls over your clit again and again and again. Your smaller, folded body strains back from the new attention. Mewling at the stretch, and the hot, heavy press of trans-human dick inside you. It's just how he likes it. He's got you all to himself, his bulky hips flush to your ass, and his pleased rumbling beside your head. He's genuinely content, if not for the constant paranoia—but content is a feeling he never really appreciated before the warp everything went to shit. But that paranoia is inconsequential compared to the sheer amount of joy he feels with you near and receptive to his affections marauding.

"That's it," he rasps, and he has to swallow down how much he's raring to just blindly rut into you like a savage. "Now, be a good little whore—and say 'Cato, harder please,' for me."

The request falls on deaf... or rather, cock-drunk ears. You simply moan in answer and squeeze, over-eager for him to keep practically putting a dent your womb. It catches Cato by surprise when you climax all too suddenly, high-strung, and fuck, everything in that moment is absolutely perfect—Cato would gladly suffer for an eternity to stay, just like this, for as long as the accursed galaxy will allow. Your body reduced to a juddering wreck, arching forwards and suffering even more touch to your abused clit; your insides twitching in time around him with each passing graze of his finger over that sensitive nerve.

Rearing back isn't a safe choice either, because you end up getting even more of him in your cunt—unable to escape his efforts to hound you over the edge as soon as possible again.

"I c-can't, I-I—" you whine, and in response, like any reasonable Astartes, he keeps pounding until you're compliant.

"Say it," he pants.

"Ca—ah–Cato, h-harder, please—" you start crying as you shake underneath him.

His ears practically perk up at you finally using his first name; it was only quick and garbled, but he's so glad to hear it—he's already addicted to it, impropriety damned, because fuck does it sound good. It's always been Commander, and only recently had it been Sicarius—but now you're finally giving him the validation of crying out for Cato—for him, just him.

You can be louder, and clearer than smothered against the covers. So Cato acts on the brilliant idea to hoist you upright on your knees while he slams into you.

You're struggling erratically against the big hands holding you up, making the sound of a dying animal, now.

He fucks you right through your struggles, one hand keeping your head up under your jaw so he can arch down to tuck his chin on your shoulder. The mixed sound of your little rear making contact with his hips is a rushed, degenerate beat—Throne, the poor headboard of your cot against the wall too, it's almost like sabatons on steel, a rhythmic clank clank clank. And oh, then you make the sweetest little overstuffed sob, isn't that cute. Aren't you adorable.

He's only just started again and he's already liable to empty himself in you.

Suddenly, there's a scream of his name—and a quick, warm-wet splash from you that drips down his balls. Then you've apparently been struck daft and limp in his hold, sniffling out a wrecked little cry as you slacken. It's an entirely new phenomenon. It seems to be a good thing, seeing as you're squeezing on him like it's another orgasm—so he takes it at face value.

He keeps you upright and lets you cinch down around him, staying still—riding out the aftershocks of your finish and keeping his cock nice and warm and snug.

Cato is honestly surprised when you regain enough sense to weakly buck backwards and fuck yourself on him.

"Please... p-please," you slur, and it seems like all you needed was the incitement to be reduced to begging now; "Cato, in me, i-in me..."

Cato's completely enthralled, and he's never been more willing to follow an order faster. He'd walk right into an orbital barrage if you asked, right now.

He shifts his weight into the next thrust and meets your meagre attempts to get him to rut into you.

The loud, wet plap of him bucking forward is almost deafening.

His eyes roll back at the searing burr of pleasure that chases up his spine, panting through a clenched jaw, "So eager to be f-full of Astartes cum, huh?"

"Please, C-Cato—" You can barely even get the sentence around the pace of him practically rearranging your uterus into your stomach.

Fuck, he knows he's so beyond defective it's not even arguable, because he's practically feral for any hint of validation you'll give. And if you want to have your insides painted so badly, why should he deny you?

"I know," he pants, "I-I know."

You whine, well beyond words.

He's about as robbed of verbal sense as you are now, and he groans, your cries becoming hiccups.

He swears he almost blacks out for a moment when he actually finishes. His arrhythmic, choppy sighs chase each thrust. So suddenly seized by his end he slumps forward, pushing you with him, feeling half-dead and gritting his teeth as shudder after shudder wracks him. Persisting, his hips still keep pumping without a hint of respite, pinning you with his bulk while emptying himself inside you, just how you wanted. The subsequent leaking of his spend from you turns the pace of him still rutting into an even stickier cacophony of lewd wet sound. Hand splayed out beside your head supporting his weight, huffing and puffing to himself like a pissed-off bull as he works himself into overstimulation.

He stops at last with a long, trying sigh and pulls his slick and spent-wet fingers out from between your legs; dragging them across the sheets somewhere to the right before letting his palm splay on your hip, dry.

You're bent ass up under him, with your cunt still full of his cock, plus a thick load; moaning so lowly and continuously it's almost a purr.

Cato groans tiredly, rocking his hips a little for good measure despite the ache of it. "Does having me finish inside you feel that good to your little animal brain?"

Your voice is a fucked-out mumble as you say, "Well... 's not like... y'going to get me pregnant or anything."

Cato stays quiet, considering.

And that quiet seemingly sends you asking, "Are—are A-Astartes... sterile?"

"I'm actually not too sure," Cato huffs, and finally grows the spine to pull himself out.

Your gasp at his exit and subsequent little exhuasted 'hmm' is curiously without any hint of fear-smell.

He scowls, "And you're not at all concerned by that?"

A soft groan from you answers, "Got an i-implant... after the first t-time, just incase."

He doesn't have the balls energy to even begin to comment on the fact you'd correctly anticipated him trying after you again. Is he that predictable?

Cato rears back and makes an affirmative sound, groping at your ass, big thumb pulling one of your labia aside to ogle the fat pearls of cum dripping from you. You'd take another load, too. And if you ask him nicely enough, he might do just that right now—or have your mouth again. But he likes spending himself in your warm cunt far more. The way you squirm and squeeze on him when he's in you is intoxicating. Maybe later, given your exhaustion. You both have all cycle—or at least, whatever remains of his rest hours. Regardless, it's a genuine wonder the device hasn't succumbed to the stress of stonewalling an Astartes' draining his balls in you so many times these last few months.

He makes a soft tutting sound as his big palm smooths down your sides; his warm breath dancing across your inner thighs.

No better than some slavering beast, Cato gives into the urge sent by his hindbrain and licks a wide band from clit to taint in one smooth motion, and pulls away, seemingly briefly appeased.

Your squeal is priceless, but—eugh, his cum does taste foul. Nutrient gruel be damned, he needs to fix that somehow.

Sputtering as quietly as he can to avoid dignifying your similar reaction earlier, he grumbles to himself—still pawing and groping at your ass.

"You've ruined m-my sheets," you manage to say.

Cato grunts, "You're the one who decided to piss on them."

He says that, but knows it wasn't. It didn't smell like it—it smelt like satisfaction, and slick, and 'harder, please—please, Cato, harder.'

The sudden shiver that runs up his spine thinking about it surely isn't born of a vaguely possessive thrill.

Abruptly you roll onto your back and sit up, grimacing at him.

"That's n-not what that was," you hiss, flustered enough that you're stammering. "T-That was..."

Cato raises an eyebrow, "What was it, hm?"

Hook, line, sinker—

You dither, red in the face as you mumble, "It–it was nothing."

—and ta-da, he reels in an Ambassador.

"Oh, that's right," he grins and leans over you, "It was you finishing so hard you screamed my name."

Something bold rears it's head in you then, eyeing him petulantly; because you start swatting at him—and Cato's never had you actively physically retaliate for any jabs—so he just freezes, bemused.

They're barely even pats to his sturdy form, and it amuses him to no end that you're so small but still trying to annoy him.

So, he acquiesces; and starts using his own strength on you. He keeps it in check, of course; because you're still a twig of a baseline, even as grating as you are. He's practically tossing you around on the bed with minimal actual effort. Big hands stroking and kneading, rolling you around, pinning you beneath him and trying to annoy you back.

The efforts yield an entirely different result. You're laughing, hyperventilating, and every rough grope earns him a shrill little keen of excitement.

"Throne, you're a degenerate," Cato hums, giving you a wry look before reeling you back under him. "Getting off on being tossed around, are you?"

And with a yelp, you're made to watch him maraud his way up your body again.

You start grinning then, and it's not the typical sweet, coy smile of you luring him in; rather, it's one of a mad thing, feral and giddy.

You snigger sharply, a little breathless from struggling. "You say that like t-there's any downsides."

Cato scoffs, and rolls onto his back, pouting. "So anything that can rough you up will do, then?"

"I, unfortunately, have a very singular preference," you chuff, and snuggle up against him; tucking your chin against his neck, humming softly to yourself.

"Is that so?" He grunts, "And what would that be?"

The kiss to his jaw is heartachingly soft, and you snort a little when he turns to look down at you and your cheek is grated by his stubble.

Your big eyes are locked on his, half-lidded and lazy, and there's that familiar, honeyed look in them again. The soft, heady fixation of focused affection.

Cato feels like he's about to start weeping out of sheer joy. You're all his, your time, your gaze, your adoration—everything.

He's practically vibrating from elation.

"Despite your profession, you are terrible at hiding your emotions," he snarls, despite himself.

"Look at the time—aren't you expected somewhere, Commander Sicarius?" You ask sourly, but the warmth in your eyes stays the same.

Cato wonders if his expression betrays any of that sort of softness. If there's any residual capacity to show affection left in his face after all he's been through. He's sure there's something going on there that's got you looking at him with that sweet gaze. Or maybe you've gotten a good read on what's going on in his head now. He certainly feels as if he's been figured out. As if you've got him pried and nailed open like a xenos corpse in some creaking admech's lair. The prospect isn't anywhere near as daunting as it should be.

Still, he plays along.

"Probably, but you don't seem to really be complaining, Lady Ambassador," Cato quips low in his throat as he leans in close, only to pull away and sneer. Your lips part slightly as you swallow your words instead of speaking, clearly captivated. That said, he is also still a little breathless from teasing you so it was no surprise you seem dazed at his own attempt.

"No, I am—you've just more muscle than brain," you bite out with a flash of snark a second late, taunting him further by sticking your tongue out.

Retaliating immediately, he snares your mouth against his own; sliding his own tongue with yours and drinking in the soft moan that slips free. You nip his bottom lip vengefully, making him stifle a growl and lean away as he hisses, "Don't tempt me for a third."

It's no lie, because fuck, he probably could go for one more. Especially with the treatment he's receiving now.

"Why not?" you say in a tone that's so sweet one of his hearts aches.

"You want more already?" He drawls as he licks your jaw, your throat, everywhere and anywhere his mouth can reach. Tasting the salt of your sweat, and practically suffocating himself in the smell of you. Basking in his victory—Cato makes a sound like a great big feline, somewhere between a chuff and a growl against your neck; lazily entertaining himself by mouthing a bevy of bruises there. You almost immediately let him do as he pleases, your mouth hanging open, eyes half lidded and face flushed. Cato tries—and fails—to restrain the sudden amusement edging his tone at how easily you fall to your lusts. "You're going to overload that implant and end up gravid, woman."

"Throne, yes—" You slur, wriggling against him as he lathes his tongue across the top of one of your tits.

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

Cato glares at you, and raises a brow. You're pretending you hadn't said anything and he's stunned you think he's stupid enough to miss it, "Baseline ducal protocol likely dictates... I would have to carry you off to be wed if that happened," he says, rushed. "Or... something of the likes, I suppose."

"R-Right," You fake a cough and avert your eyes, and you're breathing a little heavy.

"Within the context, of..." Cato backpedals, suddenly hyperaware of himself. "Of... that theoretical scenario."

You harrumph meekly, and then mumble, "Oh, of course... I agree, in that hypothetical situation."

He blinks, flabbergasted, "...really?"

You clear your throat and nod stuffily, only to tuck closer against him.

There's an entire subsector's worth of unpacking those statements need; you agree, but is that you saying it's a distant assurance? That you'd let him, one day, or is it merely conjecture? The primitive satisfaction of that base biological imperative is a heady one. Dangerous, too. If there is a chance of knocking you up, it would require significant subterfuge to keep hidden. Astartes can smell that sort of thing—and fuck, a Primarch could probably tell who's it was when given a source sample. He's got no litmus test for how easy you both would be caught. Maybe if you're suddenly on leave, for say, nine-months? That's one solution.

But where would you go—oh, Throne, he's thinking about Talassar again, and you in a pretty little slip, or in his rest robes, lying next to him notating; maybe resting against his chest in the crook of his arm—the fantasy is mundane, and domestic, and anathema to his status as High Suzerain of Ultramar, but still his cock throbs and his cheeks heat at the idea of calling you Lady Sicarius.

Your hands card through his hair abruptly, combing and petting him, and hm... that's nice, why are you looking at him like that—

"What do you think you've doing?" He growls, ever the hypocrite—his face doesn't feel hot at all, shut up.

You harrumph, "Stop pretending you don't like it."

"Whatever," Cato scoffs, and leans into your touch—not before mumbling; "Cunt."

Self-admittedly, he entirely deserves the feisty little smack he cops to the snout the very next second.

"Don't call me that," you pout.

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

He's having you a third time just because of that, for sure.

189 notes · View notes

heliads · 9 months ago

Note

Hey babe, if you're still taking requests, can I request something for Harry Hook from descendants? It takes place in an AU where basically all the kids are "chosen" to be parts of fairytales. (Think Ever After High mixed with School for Good and Evil). This world is complete with everything you see in disney movies with epic fights and songs. Heroes get love ballads and villains get traditional villain songs. Reader and Harry are friends (with feelings) on the isle and get chosen for a story, and are both super excited because they think they'll both be villains together. So imagine their surprise when they get their first song together and it sounds an awful lot like a love song.

This AU has been living in my head for a long time tbh but I have no writing skills T-T. Feel free to ignore it this is not your style or I accidentally sent this after requests closed.

'one story leads to another' - harry hook

masterlist

On the Isle of the Lost, a story is everything. Receiving a good story catapults a promising villain into a fantastic life of infamy, but a lackluster story seals your fate forever to menial satisfaction alone. Henchmen, not gods. Lackeys and thugs, never the criminal boss in charge.

Then again, a worse fate still could befall you. Many would-be villains go their whole lives without receiving a story. They’re not meant for everyone, at all, even if they mean the difference between a true life or a false existence. You can’t fathom training your whole life just to go without, but it’s the reality for many on your island. Even the deck swabbers get to go on exciting adventures with the great pirates of the sea, and even the lowliest prison guard will still live in a cursed palace.

The story controls your life, both literally and figuratively. Once you’re given a story, you’ll have no choice but to follow it out, even if it ends with your death. Then again, a story isn’t over in a matter of days. It’ll shape your life for decades. Even if the main plot is over, you’ll still be someone, and maybe you’ll feature in other people’s stories, too. There’s no way to make it without a story.

That’s why you’ve been throwing yourself into the pursuit of becoming the main character of your own story. You’ve perfected the arts of all things villain– sword fights that always end with you pulling a secret dagger out of a sleeve to tip the scales in your favor, maniacal laughter, elaborate plotting. You could scheme in your sleep or double-cross a traitor with your hands tied behind your back. Although it’s been a long time in the making, everyone on the Isle can admit that you’re the best of the best, and that a story surely has to be coming your way.

The problem, then, is attracting one. Although no rules are set in stone, there are expectations for how one’s story will come about. There will be an inciting event, of course, and then the songs will begin to appear in your head, the footwork and movements placed in your memories without a second thought. You’ll know you’re in the story, and then your life will change forever.

You’ve already seen one play out with some of your closest friends. Mal, one of your best friends since you were kids, got to live out her nefarious dreams, although even she didn’t see the twist coming in her story. Then again, becoming queen of Auradon is certainly a fine trophy for the child of a villain, even if a true marriage of love isn’t quite the way anyone expected her to steal the crown.

Mal has assured you many times over that your story will be coming too, it has to. There’s no way the magic would skip over you, not when you’ve dedicated so much of your life to being the perfect villain for any role. You can lie and cheat and maim with the best of them, surely you’re shaping up to be the arch nemesis in some hero’s grand journey? Your story will be coming your way. Surely. Surely.

And then, all of a sudden, it does. You feel it like a puppet knows its strings. All of a sudden, you have a purpose that you didn’t before. Your feet carry you out of the training yard and out into the sprawling mess of streets that makes up the Isle of the Lost. Your heart soars, and you take to the roofline, staring out at the world before you. It’s yours, all yours, and you know it’s true, so you sing it. The words come to you in a flash, perfect rhymes curling around your tongue as if they’d been there all your life.

This is what it feels like to be in a story, then. It feels right, more right than anything you’ve known before. Easier than breathing. Simpler than hoping that something like this would come your way, and at last, it has. Nothing could make your flinty heart more proud.

The song ends, and you can hear a ghost of a distant chorus fading out as you make your way back to the ground once more. Your stroll is casual, but the steps are definitely in a specific direction. The last notes fade from the air, your feet stop firmly in place, and you realize that you’re not facing down a potential heist or daring escape but the end of the dock leading into the sea. Directly in front of you lies a pirate ship.

At first, you’re thrilled– an adventure on the high seas would be fantastic. You’re friends with many of the pirates, even if you haven’t yet gotten a chance to test your fortitude against seasickness before. You cast your mind back to the words you’d just sung, trying to remember if you’d chorused anything about an exciting voyage ahead, or maybe the possibility of sunken treasure.

Instead, your heart sinks as you realize you were talking about exploring what was right in front of you. More specifically, someone right in front of you. And, as you stare with no small amount of trepidation at the pirate ship in front of you, you discover that someone else seems to be in a similar situation as you. Someone who’s just stopped singing a very similar song, who’s standing directly opposite you as if placed there by some immortal hand. Someone you know already.

Someone like Harry Hook.

A belated understanding is beginning to nestle itself between your ribs like a knife in the heart. No, this can’t be. You refuse to believe it. Still, when Harry is the first one to make a move, and walks briskly down the gangplank to stand in front of you, and says in an increasingly cavalier tone, “So, you’ve got your story started too, haven’t you?”

“Harry,” you say weakly. “I didn’t realize that you’d also gotten a song.”

“More than a song,” he says grimly. “I’ve got the whole story.”

You stare at him. “You know how it’s going to end?”

Harry had been doing his best to keep his gaze firmly pinioned on a nearby wall, but his eyes flicker briefly, traitorously, over to you when you pose the question. They snap back immediately, though. For a pirate, he’s never been the best liar, although he tends to make up for it with excellent swordsmanship. “No one knows how their story is going to end until they follow it through.”

You narrow your eyes crossly at him. “But you have a guess, don’t you? Spit it out, Hook. I don’t have all day.”

“Actually,” Harry contradicts, seeming to take great joy in the opportunity to be bothersome, “you do have all day. You’re a part of a story now, love. Your whole life is going to be wherever the wind takes you.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Harry. Very helpful. Don’t try to dodge the question, though. You know how this is going to end, right?”

He sighs. “I have an inkling. Very vague. Probably untrustworthy.”

“All pirates are untrustworthy,” you remind him.

He grins broadly, sharklike. “And all children of villains are saints like you, of course.” He groans at your exasperated expression. “Fine, fine. Although I’d suggest you get better at pretending you like playing my little games if you’d like to keep this up.”

Your eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve guessed it already, haven’t you?” Harry says testily. “Think about the songs, Y/N. The melody. That wasn’t a villainous monologue, not even your basic pledge for debauchery and ruin. That was a love song.”

You shake your head frantically. “No, Harry. That was so not right. What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” Harry says slowly, “I ‘spose it means we’re meant to fall in love.”

You draw back so quickly that you think you’ve insulted him. “No. Absolutely not. No offense, Harry, but I don’t want to fall in love with you.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head,” he says dryly.

You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not about you, I swear. It’s just– this was supposed to be my story, you know? My whole life. I was supposed to have a glorious adventure, or engage in fantastic battles, but I get one chance at a story and it’s about falling in love? No way. I won’t accept this.”

“You’re acting like I enjoy this too,” Harry retorts. “Quite the contrary, sweetheart. You’re not the only one who’s been dreaming about their story for ages. How do you reckon I’m meant to tell my father that I got a love story? He’d laugh at me so hard he’d probably stop getting scared of that crocodile once and for all. I’m just as unhappy with this as you are, but I’m willing to do something about it.”

You eye him cautiously. “Like what?”

“Let’s play along,” he suggests, and when you look like you’re going to snap at him, he raises his hands defensively and adds hastily, “I know, I know, but hear me out, will you? The faster we get things going, the sooner this ends. You know as well as I do that characters from other stories can take part in other ones, too. ‘Sides, maybe this one isn’t just a love story. Maybe we do travel somewhere exciting, we just don’t know it yet. You don’t have to fall in love with me, alright? We can pretend. We’ll sing our songs, then do whatever we want with our hearts. Me, I’m planning to show my strength by carving mine out of my chest and wearing it as a necklace. It would make a pretty pendant, I wager. Plus, all the crew would be awestruck over it.”

You can’t help but laugh at his words. “Harry, if you cut your heart out, you’d die. If you want a necklace like that, use one of your enemies’ organs.”

He nods appreciatively. “That might work better, I think.” Then, eyeing you apprehensively, “So, does that mean you’re willing to do it? To play along with our story?”

You sigh. “I think it does. It’s not like we have any choice, do we?”

Harry pulls a face. “A girl is cosmically destined to fall in love with me, and in the heat of the moment of her confession, she says it’s because she doesn’t have any choice. Be still, my heart.”

This makes you smile. “You know it’s not personal, Harry. We’ve been friends for ages, I should hope you know when I’m teasing.”

“And I should hope the same,” he says with mock solemnity, although his faux stony demeanor cracks with a wide grin within moments.

You hold out your hand for him to shake. “To falling in love?”

“To falling in love,” he says, and shakes it. So the story begins.

You’re not going to say that it’s difficult, pretending to be in love with Harry Hook. You’ve never had an issue with his company; he’s one of your oldest friends, all of the villain kids on or around the Isle of the Lost have come in contact with each other before, and you and Harry just so happened to cross paths more than a few times. In fact, you’d go so far as to say that if you were forced to sing love songs with any of the villainous children on this island, Harry would be your preferred choice.

And– the problem with that, see, is that it makes this whole thing sound like something it isn’t. You’re not in love with Harry, even if your story seems designed to make you think otherwise. You know how you felt about him before the story began, and a couple of ditties about finding something special in a person you previously overlooked isn’t going to change anything. Harry is your friend. Nothing more than a potential ally.

But then the story takes you two away from the island for a spell, the two of you co-captaining a small sailing vessel by yourselves in search of a magical talisman that would have the power to make every one of your days enchanting. You had assumed it would be a talisman of some sort, that is; yet when the two of you arrived at the hiding place of this supposed treasure and split up to each pursue one length of a split crossroads, your paths looped around so you came face to face with each other again.

No artifacts, no charms. Just Harry almost stumbling into you, having to wrap one arm around your waist so you don’t fall, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he’d been running in an attempt to beat your time. You’d chastise him for it were it not for the fact that you were sprinting, too. You wait for Harry to let you go, but he doesn’t, and instead leans closer, so close you can feel his breath hot on your cheek, and then–

You pull away quickly. Harry looks at you like a wounded dog, which makes you feel sick to your stomach. “No,” you say through gritted teeth. “This isn’t– this isn’t us. It’s the story.”

“Is it really just the story?” Harry asks you.

“Yes,” you say, refusing to consider any other option for a second. “You didn’t love me before it started. The magic is messing with our minds. This isn’t real, Harry.”

He starts slowly walking towards you, and afraid you’ll make a mistake you’ll regret once the story ends, you back up in turn, up until the point when your back hits a wall and you can go no further. Harry, however, has nothing in his way but you, and there is nothing to stop him from closing the gap between you once again.

“Tell me it’s not real,” he says lowly.

“It’s not real,” you repeat.

His hand rises to your chin, tilting it up so you have to look in his eyes. He drinks in the sight of you like he’s been marooned alone for days, like salt water has been his only benediction for as long as he can remember. “Tell me,” he says again.

“It’s not,” you insist, but your conviction is gone, drifted away from you on uncertain tides. “It’s the magic. Not us.”

“Not us?” He asks, and kisses you. Slowly, terribly slowly, he kisses you, and in between silently begging him to move faster, do more, you think about all the times you’ve been under a spell in the past, and how this feels nothing like that. Not at all. Whenever you’re under an enchantment, some small part of you knows it’s wrong, giving you just enough hope that you might be able to fight free.

When you kiss Harry, though, you don’t want him to stop. Not at all. Every single particle in your body is beating along to the same erratic pulse through your veins, the one that leans into his touch, reaching for the front of his salt-stained shirt to pull him ever closer to you. If this is your story, you don’t ever want it to end. If there is a writer out there somewhere, feverishly scribbling out your chapters, you hope they never cease, that every one of their movements until the day they die and then past that will bring you more moments with Harry, moments just like this one in which you never have to let him go.

“It’s not just the story,” you tell him amidst ragged breaths when he finally breaks away.

“No?” Harry asks, one brow quirked. Usually, he’d never pass up the chance to gloat, but he looks sorely disheveled, and he can’t take his eyes off of your kissed lips long enough to give him the chance to revel in his victory like he normally would.

Just in case, though, you distract him from the triumph by kissing him again. Somewhere in the surrounding uncharted territory, the waves crash against the shore, the seabirds wheel and sing on the marine breezes, and you find the magic in the one boy who has always been there for you, and always will be, even after your story ends. That is the magic of love, you suppose. Adventures come to a close. Battles are won, heists are accomplished, but what you and Harry share will go on forever. A fitting legacy for the best two villains who ever lived.

#harry hook #harry hook imagines #harry hook x reader #harry hook oneshot #descendants #descendants imagines #descendants x reader #descendants oneshot #descendants harry #descendants harry imagines #descendants harry x reader #descendants harry oneshot #disney #disney imagines #disney x reader #disney oneshot

701 notes · View notes

astaroth1357 · 2 years ago

Text

The MC Meeting the Brothers' (+Dia & Barbs) Cults

So like. Imagine the Brother's Fanclubs + Witchy Requests. That's this.

Contents: Satanic themes, demon stuff, witchy inspirations

~♡♡♡~

Lucifer

Lucifer's cults take this shit SERIOUSLY. They're not just fooling around with the occult, they live and breathe it.

I'm talking dark robes, goats heads, bonfires, animal blood, ritual dances- You know. The works.

Definitely the sort of occultists who gatekeep other occultists. They want the world to think of THEM, the followers of the mighty Lucifer, as THE quintessential demonic cult to model all others after. He (and by that they mean they) deserves no less.

Oh yes, they are a very prideful and obnoxious bunch... Completely void of self-awareness too. Try to point out how arrogant they're being and they'll call you crazy.

Lucifer openly despises most of them and possesses a quiet distain for the rest. He doesn't think they're nearly as competent and useful as they claim to be and would rather they simply butt out of his affairs.

He doesn't visit them much nor allow them to summon him unless it is a world-ending emergency (so never). A former past leader thought he was beyond those rules and paid for his hubris with his spine...

Lucifer will do all in his power to convince MC that his cult isn't even worth visiting. They'll annoy them to death... And even if they do go, the self-absorbed members won't exactly roll out the red carpet.

Just take down any names of the most irritating ones and Lucifer will take care of it. The dungeon rats could use some company.

Mammon

Mammon's cult kind of feels like a mix between a tech startup and Gambler's Anonymous at times. Money is the goal, babes. Everybody there is some kind of slave to the grind and they hustle like the goddamn NFL.

Funny enough, it usually isn't the already rich and successful who find themselves in Mammon's orbit, but those who are close to, if not in, poverty and looking to turn things around.... in less than stellar ways.

What I'm saying is, most are either casino regulars, scam artists, or buy into crypto.

That said, unlike most of his brothers, Mammon actually has a pretty deep soft spot for his followers. He puts on the "callous demon" act when he's brought out, but generally, he never cruel to them. He may even throw in an extra bit of help for free if he sees someone is struggling.

When they first met the MC, they really went out of their way to be sure MC was safe, pampered, and satisfied. This was Mammon's favorite human, after all! He talks about them constantly...

It's pretty humorous because most of them already know what kind of food MC likes, what their sense of style is, their favorite colors, and the like from just listening to Mammon's rambles. Or because he'll send one of them to fetch him some kind of present when he's visiting.

Admittedly, they're all kinda scummy and insufferable at times. But endearing in the same way Mammon can be so hanging out with them can still be a good time. MC just have to keep an eye on their wallet.

Leviathan

Levi's cult feels like a bunch of teens who read a creepypasta once, tested it out as a joke but found out it was all real. Thankfully, instead of being horrified, they were actually psyched!

They kind of take to devil worship with a DnD-like enthusiasm. They all have code names like, "Grimshadow" or "Evergloom," each owns a black cloak that they MUST wear to all meetings, and they all have incredibly embellished and extensive backstories for their "darkside" personas. Levi is very proud of their commitment to it all.

That being said, they do take to their found family, counterculture thing with a good dash of humor. They once all attended their local aquarium in full robes and linked hands around the jellyfish tank for shits and giggles.

Levi's followers rarely summon him, but he stays in regular contact with the group through chatrooms and messengers. They love to report on the fun "campaigns" they're building on or when they pull some kind of silly stunt to scare the normies.

When MC visits them, they've long since built up this prince/ss persona for them and treat them like the defacto second-in-command. (Partially because they know Levi would flip out if they upset MC in any way).

If MC enjoys a bit of LARPing, they're the most dedicated group they'll ever find! If they're not willing to play act royalty for a few hours...? Steer clear.

Satan

Satan has a ton of cults so they come in all shapes, sizes, and flavors. MC will certainly find one for them!

... The catch is that very few of them actually have a good idea of who Satan really is. It's pretty common to mistake him for Lucifer still, to the point that some cults use their names interchangeably, and THOSE cults better not try contact him personally.

If MC manages to uncover more updated following of Satan's, they'll feel like they walked into a "National Treasure"-style bookclub. These guys are looking for the secrets of the universe, never mind anything else.

Meeting with Satan's inner circle usually feature the search, collection, curation of old esoteric tomes or lost artifacts from the distant realms. The majority of the participants are scholars, academics, and the odd cooky conspiracy theorist who just happened to be right.

Also. Cats. Soooo many cats... The cultists are VERY aware of Satan's volatile temper, so they take pains to keep as many cats present as they can whenever they summon him. Their meeting house is just full of them...

Satan's cult gives MC the real VIP treatment because NO ONE wants to the one to tell the Avatar of Wrath that they disrespected his loved one... If MC were walking barefoot, they'd be laying pillows beneath their every step. The only things treated better are the clubhouse cats.

Asmodeus

Asmo's cult is basically one big family. Very enmeshed and a lot of history, but also soooo fascinating to be around.

If MC wanted to keep track of every person in Asmo's following, they would have to make a chart that could expand the length of an entire wall and, in some cases, go back generations if not centuries.

Followers of Asmo have historically ranged everywhere from sex workers to concubines and even members of the aristocracy looking increase their social capital. Being under his cult provided protection and refuge for the most derided of society, no matter orientation or background. A good portion of his modern following are actually members who've been grandfatherd in from parents or siblings who have joined.

And, of course, Asmo maintains a very close and personal relationship with almost all of them. He's always invited to attend baby showers, weddings, graduations, birthdays, what have you and he makes it to a good deal of them, even if only for a few minutes.

Because of its sheer size and unorthodox structure, Asmo's following almost seems like a "cult" in the loosest sense. They have rituals, spells, and meetings but it all looks SO much different than the others. Get-togthers among the adults are practically just parties and maybe you summon some succubi with goat's blood and glitter glue.

Asmo's cult can be kinda catty, but generally very supportive and they LOVE having MC around. Big gossips with a lot of questions. If they love a party, then they can't go wrong!

Beelzebub

Beel's cult takes self-indulgence to a whole new level. These guys LOVE their vices and find a little demonic touch is the best way to keep the indulgence going.

Belphegor

It's amazing that for such a sweet demon, his cult is some of the scummiest people on the planet. We're talking riding yachts on your mega-yacht levels of excess. "Too much of a good thing" taken to the extreme.

The thing is, as long as you have the money to feed Beel then he's really agreeable and kind. So wealthy assholes take advantage of his generosity all the time...

That said, don't feel too bad for Beel just yet because they ARE scumbags, but Beel is in charge and he has his limits.

One old billionaire kept summoning him during his fangol matches. The guy's maids found his nightrobe ripped to shreds and bite marks in the furniture.

Another one made a passing insult about Mammon and Beel came home to give his brother the lady's jewelry... after he washed them off, of course.

He discourages MC from meeting them even harder than Lucifer, and if they insist, he'll go with them and loom over their shoulder like a round-the-clock bodyguard. He doesn't need to tell his followers to treat MC nicely... he'll make them.

Absolutely those edgy kids who dress in all black and SAY that yeah, they've totally met Belphegor. But they really haven't, and it shows.

Remember, Belphie is on the blacklist so most witches who say they've met him are fucking liars. However, that doesn't stop novice covens searching for a little respect from claiming they're in good with the guy.

Since the group doesn't really know what Belphegor is about, they most just use their little club as an excuse to grief others and claim undue superiority. They pull a lot of pranks though, so they at least have some parts right.

Belphie has a vague awareness of their existence, but couldn't be bothered to contact them or set the record straight. What's it matter to him if a bunch of humans want to make a fool of themselves? He doesn't care that much about his reputation.

If MC were actually summon Belphegor themselves in front of them, the entire group would shit their pants immediately then cry and beg for forgiveness. Again, Belphie doesn't care, but he likes toying with fools so he'd play the part of the "Angry Master" long enough to make them run for their lives.

Needless to say, if MC wants there to be no Belphie-cult, no more Belphie cult there will be.

Diavolo

Actually a very small group since it's not super widespread that the Demon King is out of commission. But those who are there are a real who's-who of the witching world.

Dia doesn't actually interact with his cult very much, despite their combined influence, because he finds them very off-putting. Most of them are just "yes men" or social climbers wanting to get in good with royal bloodline, so he doesn't put much stock in what they do or say.

If he does contact them, it's for his "Bring Harmony" plans and they do come in handy as envoys in the human realm. He keeps the interactions brief though.

Several of his number have attempted to get into contact with MC before, but Solomon usually wards them off for much the same reason Dia does. They all just want something from them, so why let them bother his sweet little apprentice?

Those who slip through the cracks get shut down immediately by an impromptu visit from the friendly neighborhood sorcerer who seems to have some of charm in place for just such occasion. It's pretty confusing for MC to watch Solomon drag some big politican out of the house by the scruff of the neck, but it's probably better that they just don't ask and move on.

Barbatos

An even smaller group than Dia's and even more secretive. You basically have to be invited in by Barb's himself so a new member gets added every half century or so...

Nobody is quite sure what spurs Barbs to select someone into his cult... Maybe they make a good first impression when summoning him or he sees that they're important for the future? Sometimes, he'll even induct complete normal humans who weren't even witches to start with so it's anybody's guess.

Due to its small size and, frankly, years of even centuries worth of distance between members there's a lot less meetings and more just doing what Barbs says.

For instance, he may instruct a member to bury a particular message on a hill to then tell a different member to go find 60 years later... Or he'll have another member set into motion a chain of events that won't actually be felt for decades to come.

The cult members don't know about MC unless Barbs NEEDS them to know about MC. He keeps a lot in the dark. If they do, he takes pains to stress that he admires MC quite a bit and to not upset them...

When Barbatos tells you not to do something, you don't fucking do it, so they are VERY kind to MC. Just in that "I feel like there's a gun to my head"- kind of way...

#okay soulmare #if you wont give Asmo's character depth and attention #i will #justice for asmo #obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #obey me scenarios

2K notes · View notes

hermetiqa · 3 months ago

Text

What do you need to know right know?

Daily Message: 17.08.24

Reminder: it doesn't matter if you saw this reading a day or a week or a month or a year after posting this. My readings are timeless. You'll see this when you're meant to see this and receive your message.

Close your eyes and take a deep breath before picking a pile. If you feel drawn to more than one pile, it's alright, you may take the piles that you're drawn to. What's important is to take it how it resonates and leave what doesn't.

PAID READINGS | TIP JAR | FEEDBACK | MASTERLIST

PLEASE HELP IF YOU CAN

NOTE: Please feel free to give me a feedback on my asks about the reading! I would highly appreciate it and it'll be a huge help for me to improve as a reader.

Pile 1

I'm seeing a new relationship coming your way, Pile 1! I'm leaning more into a romantic relationship but it'll be a slow burn one. It might feel like nothing's happening for a while because this person (masculine energy) is taking things slow between you. But I can see that they'll be planning about this connection and they'll have plans about you, and they'll even be generous when it comes to you. They might spoil you and they will be overprotective of you here. But be reminded that whatever it is that hurt you in the past, let this go. Let go of what changed in the past because it was a necessary change. You lost people because they won't be good for you in the future anymore. You should take things slow here with your new person too. Learn to go with the flow and be patient with them, don't rush them into anything because the way they take action towards you and your connection is simply them making sure that it's going well. I'm not getting much for you here, Pile 1, because this is simply what you need to know right now, the moment you're seeing this reading. Everything's going well for you. 2:22 on the clock. You're in the right place at the right time.

Pile 2

I'm getting some energy trying to heal from you here, Pile 2. I feel like you're trying to heal from a connection, specifically a platonic one. I feel like you want them to approach you and apologize and settle things with you, and perhaps start again as friends. This person could have a masculine energy. While the person with feminine energy, this could be you (take it how it resonates), had already set boundaries in the connection. This person already took the risk of losing the connection because of what had happened, which could be a huge argument. I feel like something had to change in this connection, maybe you're already in the adulting stage, and the person with masculine energy doesn't want this change. This person refused to change and accept change in the connection. They were too scared of it and it overwhelms them. I can see that this could've hurt you but you're healing from this. You could still be hopeful that you'll encounter each other again but at the same time, you're focusing on your healing and your own life. And it's just right to do so. I can also see that you're still determined to follow your own path and it's fine with you if following your own path means you'll be isolated from people around you, and you'll be completely on your own. In any case, I'm proud of you for doing so. I hope you'll heal well.

Pile 3

I can see that you're being left out in the cold here, Pile 3. Someone left you behind all of a sudden, this could be caused by some argument between you and one of you was being immature. But let this go because a better connection is coming your way, something more stable and long-term. There's a lot of future with this connection and it'll be passionate and adventurous. This person will show and/or teach you things you didn't know were possible or existed. You might be reminiscing about your past right now, about someone who had left you. I even feel like you're overthinking about what happened and you kept thinking about them and you have these "what if" thoughts running in your head. But it's important to recognize your life without them. The connection ended for a reason. You lose them for a reason. And that reason is for the better of you as individuals. You could even be isolating yourself from people around you because of this connection that you had lost but don't let yourself get stuck in this loop. I have nothing else to say here because I feel like you don't want anyone knowing about this much, like the details, so I'll stop here. But if this resonates and you understand what this is about, you have something or someone in your mind as you read this, then this is definitely for you. Let them go.

194 notes · View notes

byunpum · 1 year ago

Text

I can be a better father | Part 2 | Songcord

Pair: Tsu'tey x Child y/n x Child spider

Warning: none, cute moments.

Note: Here is this second part, this request I wanted to make as part of this mini-series. I do not expect that you will like tsu'tey as the reader's father so much. And I have also received a lot of requests about many ideas, for more parts. So wait for them<3

Request: (anonymous) Tsu'tey being a dad to Spider and reader, how would he be when he realized that human children never have a songcord? And how would their songcourd be when Tsu'tey is making them?

+Language: yawntutsyip (darling) sempu(dad) sempul(father)

Avatar masterlist | Part 1, Part 2 , Part 3

Tsu'tey's life as a single father was on the verge of chaos, and a life of pleasure. It had been a year since he adopted his babies. He loved his new life, he had two beautiful children who loved him with all their heartsr. But integrating his children was a struggle. They were human children, in a completely na'vi clan. And even though Max had offered to raise his children in the lab, Tsu'tey refused. Tsu'tey refused, he wanted them to be real omaticaya children. From head to toe. So he decided that his children would enter the children's group of his clan. In this group, the children took lesions, and learned about survival. The children were guided by a guide, a guide who was his friend, so he felt safe to let them.

"They'll be fine, don't worry," says neytiri, touching his friend's shoulder. Neytiri had also left her children, who were Y/N's siblings. the children run to where their sister was, hugging her and laughing. Jake reached the group of adults. "Tsu'tey you have to let them be free" spoke Jake, getting a dirty look from Tsu'tey. He was nervous as hell, he thought some animal was going to eat them. It wasn't the first time the children were in the jungle, but they were going out of the safe zone. "Neteyam come here!!!" yells jake, getting the boy to hear him. Jake kneels down. "I want you to keep an eye out at all times for your sister and spider….So tsu'tey will be more calm, right?" speaks jake, neteyam nods his head. Running to her sister, taking Y/N's hand. The girl accepts without arguing at any time. "Better?" asks neytiri, both adults look at tsu'tey. Which had its ears back and tail curled around its legs. "No…I feel like I'm not breathing" speaks tsu'tey. Jake and neytiri laughed out loud, as they gave encouragement to their friend. Watching as the group of children walk away. They'll be fine…they know how to survive out there.

The children would be one night away from the clan. Tsu'tey had prepared them. They had their little bags, with oxygen refills (oxygen that Max gave them) and their siblings would be watching over them. Kiri was next to spider, and next to Y/N was neteyam who had not let go of his sister's hand at any moment. He had a mission and he was going to accomplish it. On the other hand, Y/N wanted to follow and be with lo'ak, who was ahead of her. Running and prancing. After a long hike, they took fishing and survival injuries. They decided to make camp, all the children settled in. Some were playing around, and others were in groups. As was Y/N with his siblings. Spider was lying next to his sister, while Y/N was sitting. Neteyam was next to her. In front of them were kiri and lo'ak. On the other sides were other children.

"You know…my mom added a new bead to my songcord…she said it was for an important moment" says the girl, kiri claps a little. Telling how neytiri had also added another memory. This caught Y/N's attention, giving her brother a quick glance. Spider looks at her curiously, he didn't know what they were talking about either. Both children continued to listen to what the others were saying. They were fascinated with the idea, listening as their little friends told stories and important moments of their lives. They wanted that too…but how could they have it? After a long talk, the mentor ordered everyone to sleep. Y/N lay with her brothers, resting. Morning came quickly, as soon as everyone was up. They set off on their way home.

All the children arrived safely at their homes. Tsu'tey was waiting impatiently for his little ones. Nervously at the entrance of his hut, in the distance he could see how the guide was leading his little ones. Both children, upon seeing the figure of their father, run as fast as they could. Hugging him, and talking about how their first trip went. "Hey… don't talk together, let's go inside the house and tell me everything" says tsu'tey laughing a little, seeing how both children run inside the house. Throwing everything on the floor, looking for their toys. Tsu'tey took care of verifying that his children didn't have a scratch on them. He fed him, and now he was going to dedicate himself to combing his babies' hair. Tsu'tey knew that hid children had played a lot the day before, because the spider's hair was uncombed, and y/n's long hair was tangled.

Spider was in front of them, playing as he watched his sister being combed. Y/N was on tsu'tey's lap, while his father carefully untangled her hair. He had to braid her hair, he thought this would be an easier and more comfortable hairstyle for him. There was a comfortable silence between them, not until Y/N broke the silence. "sempu" asks the little girl. "What happened my yawntutsyìp?" tsu'tey speaks as he continues to work on his daughter's hair. "What is a songcord?" asks the little girl. Spider looks up, also to watch her father's reaction. "A songcord… it is a string that every Na'vi has from the day of their birth. On it beads are placed at the most important moments of his life" tsu'tey does not take his gaze from the work. Both children listen attentively. "A song is sing, to remember the most sacred moments" tsu'tey speaks.

"Do you have yours?" asks spider, moving closer to his father. "Sure…when one comes of age. Your songcord is given to you, and it is a memory of your life" tsu'tey pauses a bit, as he watches Y/N turn away. "sempu…we have a songcord?" speaks Y/N. Tsu'tey froze, not knowing what to tell them. As far as he knew, no. "Mmmm should…why not?" tsu'tey didn't know what to say to them, both had their eyes darting around their faces, waiting for any kind of answer. "We don't have one, do we?" spider asks, tsu'tey's heart broke. The child's little eyes were dilated, and sadness could be seen. He was impressed by the connection both children had with eywa, understanding and feeling so quickly.

"I'll…I'll figure this out..ok, don't worry" tsu'tey tries to distract his children. He finishes fixing Y/N's hair, to now go with spider's turn. This was going to be a very interesting afternoon. Tsu'tey took the children to the bed, which was in a kind of capsule. In this capsule he could put the children, and they could rest without the discomfort of the oxygen mask. Norm had installed it, at Jake's request. After telling them a story, and kissing him goodbye. He decided to go in search of the materials he would use to create the songcord for his children. He didn't care that it was late, he had to have everything ready for tomorrow. By the look on his children's faces, he could tell that they were very upset that they did not have a songcord like the other children. Checking that everything in the hut was safe, he grabbed a bag. Tying it around his waist and setting off into the jungle.

Y/N te Rongloa Ateyo'itan, Born in 2154. That was the first line tsu'tey braided. Naming his new daughter, with hid surname. Placing a precious crystal green gemstone. The first time he saw his little girl, was in Jake's arms. He was holding her, and introducing the little baby to Mo'at. Neytiri was next to him with a large belly, where her other son neteyam is. For a moment I felt some disgust, it was a human baby, an alien. But all the negative thoughts she had about the baby were erased when Jake handed her the baby in his arms. She was so small, he could hold her in the palm of his hand. In that moment he knew her and he knew he would protect her all his life. He continued braiding, decorating the cord with some precious objects. Like a piece of wood from the first bow he made for y/n, as a surprise when she was three years old. Then he regretted it, because the little girl almost put her eye out. He had to laugh to himself, as the memories came flooding back.

Spider te Rongloa Ateyo'itan, Born in 2153, his eldest son, the son of the man who was part of the destruction of his clan. He placed a ratchet, which had a break in the side, as a sign of the first time he saw it. Walking in the jungle, he heard some crying. As he approached, he looked down and found a small boy, about one year old. His knee was cut, and he was crying inconsolably. He was a broken child, he had escaped from Norm. So he took care of him and from then on the little one always followed him. He continued braiding the cord, and placed a cord more colorful than the others, this represented the bracelet of bravery that he had given to spider, the first time the child followed him to the floating mountains. He was a very brave boy. Tsu'tey's chest fills with pride as he finishes the last line of both cords. He stopped working on the pieces, deciding that the last part had to be special.

The next morning after getting the two children up. He gave them their breakfast, and cleaned them up. Both children sat next to him, watching as their father put various materials in the center. And also pulling out the two ropes. The children's little faces lit up, seeing what their father was holding in his hands. "sempu….that's a songcord" speaks spider, excitedly touching the string a bit. "Yes… one for each of you. See…" tsu'tey picks up two stones. Both pieces had a red color, with white details. Tsu'tey had polished it, to make it perfect. "These two stones…they are going to represent the moment when you became my children…because you must know that you make me the happiest man in the whole clan, right?" tsu'tey pokes y/n's nose, causing the girl to giggle. "Yes…our sempul!!!" spider is so excited, now he had gotten up, to hug tsu'tey from behind while swinging around his neck. Tsu'tey carefully braided the last piece, noticing how his children watched intently. Then he carefully showed him, and explained each of the parts.

Tsu'tey began to sing a lullaby, for his children. Taking them in his arms, as both little ones snuggled into his chest. He felt so grateful for eywa…these children seemed sent by the sylwanin herself. They were the light in his eyes, the only thing that mattered to him right now. Cradling his little ones more in his arms, he sang the last phrase of the lullaby:

"Ngaru irayo seiyi ayoe, Tonìri tìreyä, Ngaru irayo seiyi ayoe. Srrìri tìreyä, Ma Eywa, ma Eywa" tsu'tey bends a little to give a kiss on the crown of his children's heads. After so long, he felt so loved.

2K notes · View notes

luveline · 2 years ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

You and James have found more than friendship on the ice. When you’re afraid to flub a jump and take the leap with him into something more, he finds a way to convince you. [4k]

hockey player!james, figure skater!reader, shy!reader, fem!reader, fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining, confessions, first kiss, idiots in love, james is tall pretty and extremely in love, sometimes shy!james <3 requested here

･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ

You're used to the skin tight costumes of figure skating, and have accepted the fact that they show the entirety of your thighs— that's sort of the point. What you're not used to, however, is having the hockey team see you in said costumes.

James is thrilled. "Look at you, angel! You're in costume!"

He holds the sides of the rink in his hands, leaning his weight toward the ice. You wrap your arms around yourself self-consciously.

"I was hoping you wouldn't see me," you admit, though you can't help smiling at him anyhow.

You're usually very happy to bump into him, and your body reacts like it's been conditioned to. James leads to good feelings.

"I bet you were," he says.

James reaches out for you, and you skate to the end of the rink despite yourself. He doesn't touch you when you're close, you weren't really expecting him to, only inclines his head inward to tell you something quietly, all secretive like.

"Your skirt’s tucked in a little bit. On the left," he says.

"Oh, how," you grumble, twisting your torso to try and see what he means. A leaf of your skirt has managed to fold itself into the fabric that covers your butt. "That's so embarrassing."

You were likely trying to unstick a slight wedgie when it happened. It's mortifying, but James probably doesn't know how it happened… probably. You yank the skirt out and hope he can't read what you're thinking off of your face.

"Thanks, James," you say quietly.

You say his name with altogether too much affection, considering you're friends. Acquaintances, even. You know James within these walls and nowhere else, like work colleagues, and you'd die if he knew how close you felt to him. In fairness, you both spend the majority of your free time within these walls, but still.

He's probably the best friend that you have. Which is pathetic. But between skating and your nervous disposition, this is as good as it was ever going to get. And you don't mind.

All of the time.

"You're welcome. If I knew we were dressing up today, I would've worn something nice." He has his jogging bottoms on and not his big bulky kit. You try not to stare at the more tight-fitting form of his hoodie sleeves, but it's hard. His biceps are ridiculous. "Are you staying?"

Sometimes, if the boys are practising you'll stay. It's free entertainment — and it is incredibly entertaining to watch. James and his friends are a semi-professional team, which means they're a mixture of good and fun. They play because they love it, and they all have their night jobs to go back to after. It makes it easier for you and James to get along: you're semi-professional too. You're never going to the Olympics, you know that. You skate because you love it.

There's a clock steadily ticking down on your skills. Every year you get older, heavier, a little more inflexible. The more intense sportsmen and women fight this, revile this, but you've accepted it completely. Skating is for fun. The competitions are to see how far you can go, and it sucks to lose, but the chance that you might win means you keep trying.

If James and his friends are doing laps, it's a mock punishment from their coach. In half an hour they'll be playing a friendly match against one another like nothing happened.

"I have to go take this off but… yeah, I'll stay. Is Sirius here today?"

James leans back and you follow his turned gaze to a lean figure across the way. As soon as you spot him, your ears tune in to his raucous laughter.

"You won't let him see me, will you?" you ask gently. "He'll never let me hear the end of it."

James shakes his head. "Of course not. I'll go distract him, alright? You run away."

You give him a very grateful nod. James turns away. You almost miss it, the double take that he does, like he wants one last look.

You skate off to the other side of the ice where your skate guards, water bottle and hoodie sit waiting. The guards snap on easily. You throw your hoodie over your arm and make a break for the changing rooms, Sirius’ incredulous voice tailing your retreat at the last second.

Once you've changed out of your costume and packed it away neatly in your locker, you walk back to the main auditorium, freaking out as gently as you're able to. You keep having conniptions about James, because James keeps looking at you like he has something to say. You've never been the object of a pretty boy's affections. You're worried that it's all in your head, and that you'll make a fool of yourself if you try to flirt back, but his face when he'd seen you in your costume gives you a terrifying new confidence.

James had been ecstatic. His eyes had roved all over you and he hadn't tried to hide it. His smile was huge and one hundred percent genuine: appreciative. Like he couldn't be happier to see you.

Is it wrong, then, to assume he likes you? No. You’ve known for a while.

"Oof," you mutter to yourself, stepping back into the general chill of the rink and its surrounding stands.

As you predicted, laps are over and the boys are in the thick of it, protection on, sticks shivering across ice with a sound like sharp blades. You stand behind a plexiglass screen and follow James' darting figure from afar. He's recognisable to you from the way he pulls back his arms, and the slight lean of his torso when he's standing still. You've spent too much time watching him.

Too much time, and yet the rules are still complicated in your mind. James and Sirius are arguing with Frank on the opposite side about icing, passionate enough that James pulls his helmet off and begins throwing threats at his friends.

"Mate, I'm actually about to drown myself," he warns, laughing through each word. "Are you listening to me? Take the penalty before I scream. Good god, man."

You laugh. James' head almost snaps clean off his neck with the speed at which he turns to look at you.

Sirius' head follows.

"Hey!" Sirius calls immediately, abandoning his skirmish to skate towards you. "What the fuck! I wanted to see the dress, you let James see it! Go put it back on right now."

"How'd you even know I was in a dress?"

"How did I know? James lit up like a Christmas tree, that's how I know. He's disgusting all the time and it's your fault."

"It's not really a dress," you say. Sirius is as nice as James but he's intimidating where James isn't. He's less smiles, more barking laughter. Less compliments, more playful chastisement. It's not his fault in any shape or form that you find his personality hard to respond to, but you do. "It's a bodysuit with a skirt. But sometimes… sometimes the girls do wear dresses."

"Yeah? I think he might pass out," Sirius says. Then, with a neater smile. "He told me to be nicer, I didn't know I was being mean, sorry. I really do wanna see your 'bodysuit with a skirt'. A little to make fun, but I bet you look good."

James sweeps in and promptly knocks Sirius sliding sideways. "She looked amazing, now stop antagonising her."

"I wasn't flirting, Jamie, no need to worry–"

"Be gone, you beast." James' voice is tight with an emotion you can't name, lest you have another ruinous conniption for all to see. "Fuck off."

Sirius snorts. There's a commotion, their unprofessional coach shouting about idiocy, a lack of commitment, and more laps if there isn't an improvement in team cohesion. James rolls his eyes at you as the coach drones on. You feel guilty for giggling.

"Sorry for Sirius." James puts his hand on the top of his stick, bottom lip sticking out a touch as he grimaces. "Sorry for me, I'm sorry. I was hoping he'd use, like, a modicum of subtlety, but he's a dickhead and I know that. He's also a sweetheart. I should've guessed he'd rush to apologise."

"No, don't be. He doesn't need to be sorry for anything, and you don't have to be sorry for looking out for me."

"I'm not. Definitely not sorry for that."

James pushes a curl behind his ear. His hair is lusciously shiny under stadium lights, dark dark dark and curled, sweet and thick.

"You're in trouble."

James looks over his shoulder toward his coach's booming disbelief. "What, with him? We're in the off-season right now, he needs to relax… I'm sorry, I feel like I'm not talking like a real human being right now." He laughs, awkward and charming at once. "Do I sound weird to you? Don't answer, that'll make it worse," he adds, his voice dipping into a genuine sadness. "Awful. Well, I'm going back over there to finish. Can you stay?"

Not do you want to. Can you? It feels incredibly intimate, his easy assumption without a lick of expectancy. If you said no, he'd frown and throw his chest back, hand over his heart like he's been shot in one of his dramatics, but he’d understand.

"I'm staying," you say.

"Brilliant. Okay."

James Potter visibly flusters, tucking that same rogue curl behind his ear. You want to offer him something, a tight braid or one of your headbands from your bag. He skates off and you don't get the chance.

You're a vestibule of conflicted emotion. James has been acting so unlike himself lately. He's shy at odd moments and quick to fluster, scratching at his neck or his biceps or his nose in what you've identified as his nervous tic. And you might be shy yourself but you're not stupid, he's practically a mirror.

Knowing James has a crush on you and accepting it are wildly different tasks.

What if you date and he realises it's a mistake? You'll lose your only good friend. No more practices with James on the sidelines shouting stories across the rink for you to hear. No more pep-talks on hard days, a big hand on your shoulder and his lilting superlatives in your ear. You're going to smash it, shortcake. No more half sandwiches when he forgets his lunch. No more laughing until your stomach hurts. No more of his cologne lignering on your shirt from a quick hug, the smell indescribable even now. Sandalwood? Dewberry? Something sweeter, fuller, bourbon vanilla?

James clatter off of the ice after a tremendous loss with high spirits. His helmet under his arm, mouth guard in hand, he walks on his skates to your bench and sits down with a smile. “That sucked.”

"It was a good game," you say.

"Can't win them all. You going home now?"

"Work. Gotta work my arms out too," you joke weakly, curling your arm inward.

"Can I walk you? I can change quickly."

"You don't have to–"

"Please?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say, feeling sick. "Yeah, okay."

James guards up and leaves for the changing room. You sit on the bench tapping your knees together, wondering why it feels so awful to like him so much. Sirius and some other friends pack up soon afterward, and a few of them are nice enough to say goodbye as they pass.

"See you tomorrow," Sirius says warmly.

You grimace at him. You'd been attempting a smile, but that hadn't really panned out, meekness and nerves combined pulling the corners of your lips down.

He wavers.

"You know," he says, paused half a foot from you, "James is a big boy, he can handle rejection. He wouldn't be cruel to you, if you weren't interested."

"That's not it."

"No?" he asks, slim eyebrows raised.

"It's the opposite of that. He's my friend." You admit it to yourself as you admit it to him. James is not an acquaintance. "Do you know what I mean? I don't want…" to lose him.

Sirius nods. "You won't." His teeth flash as he smiles goodbye.

James looks gorgeous when he emerges, his brown face framed by thick, dark hair, the strands closest to his face damp from a quick face wash.

"You could put your hair up," you say, standing. "It's getting so long now."

"Is it awful?" he asks, hand moving to the longest pieces at his neck. It's above his shoulder, but only just.

"No… no, it's not awful."

You both start walking towards the exit without another word. You should've said how you really feel about his hair —how it's gorgeous, and you'd like to run your hands through it, feel the softness for yourself and see the look on his face as he's touched with care— but you're worried one thread of honestly will pull at the rest, unspooling your innermost thoughts for him to see. You aren't ready for that.

James puts a hand behind your shoulder as you pass out of the exterior glass doors and into the street. The rink isn't far from your work, only a ten minute walk, and the first two pass in silence.

"You really looked lovely, in your costume. When is that, the competition?"

"A week and two days."

"Are you travelling?"

You nod. "Not far, but." You wrap your arms around your front to stave off the cool chill of the whipping breeze. James' hair gets pushed into his eyes. "I have a bobble if you want it."

"I can't do anything with it. It's not long enough for a ponytail, and I can't plait to save my life. I wouldn't know where to start."

You're glad to be looking at the pavement in front of you rather than his face as you say, "I'd do it for you, but…"

James' shoe hits a pebble.

"I know," he says. "We're going down a one way street."

"Right." Your heart soars, your chest lightens, so glad he understands where you're coming from. "If we keep going on like this there isn't a way to move back if it doesn't work, and I just… don't want to lose you. I can't, James. You're my– you're my only real friend. I like you," you confess, heart pounding in your throat, under your tongue, all the worst places it could stand to be. "I do. And I know you'd still be nice to me if I didn't. Um…"

You flush with heat, realising what you've admitted, and what he hasn't.

Like he can read it on your face, James' walking slows, and he turns in to face you.

"I like you, too," he says. "I'm a bit mad for you, actually."

You'd known that. Hearing it is something else. You hadn't realised how strong the pull would feel after he said it aloud. You look up from his broad chest to meet his eyes, and see the magnetism you feel reflected in his gaze. His hand breeches the gap between your two bodies first, his fingertips and then the flat of his nails smooth as they slide across the top of your thigh. Careful, slow.

James puts his hand on your waist.

"You're worried we won't be friends, if we try to make whatever this is," —he smiles gently— "work, and we can't."

"Exactly. I… you're…"

James takes your upper arm into his free hand. "I promise it will work," he murmurs. He looks at you with a steadiness bordering on stern. "Why are you so sure it won't?"

"I'm worried," you say.

"You're always worrying. But…” His hand flexes around your bicep. “You told me before, the reason you keep skating in competitions even though you don't win many anymore, do you remember that? You said you keep trying because the thrill of almost winning is nearly as good as the real thing."

James' smile turns sheepish. "I'm supposed to say that I don't know if this will work. That the thrill of almost making it together will be worth it if we don't, but I already promised you we will." He leans in a little. You don't think he means to. "And won't that feel better than almost?"

You look up into his handsome face, feeling your heart reach flat out, might as well be running full tilt speeds of beating. Your breath catches.

"I don't want to end up alone," you confess on an exhale.

"You won't. I'll make sure you won't."

Wind curls his hair into his eyes.

You reach out, your shaking index finger skirting over his brow bone as you tuck the runaway strand behind his ear.

His grip grows tighter at your waist. Never cruel, but insistent, desperate almost, in the way that his thumb shudders across your hoodie. You can’t feel his skin over the thick layer of cotton and polyester but you can feel the heat, like a star blistered against your hip bone, like a begging wish. You want him to touch you more than you can stand — you’re pleading with him in your head to do what you can’t do.

It must show in your eyes, the pained pinch of your brow.

“We’ll take things slowly,” he says. “We won’t do anything we can’t undo. All you have to do is trust me. If… if you want to.”

You lick your lips. Taking things slowly. You can’t kiss him, can’t trick yourself into the gratification of having someone so darlingly gorgeous put his hands on you. If he kisses you now, you’ll forget all the reasons why this is a bad idea. You won’t be able to test the waters. If you kiss him, you can’t take it back. For either of you.

James’ hand smooths down the length of your hip as he pulls it back. The other falls toward your hand. Your mourn the loss of his touch, but he’s offering you his hand, his long fingers separated, gaps waiting to be filled.

“Slowly,” you say, putting your hand in his.

He gives your joined hands an experimental squeeze. “We’ve all the time in the world.”

James starts walking back the way you came, pulling you with him down the road.

“James, where are we?”

“I told you. We went down a one way street by accident. Or, I tried to tell you, but you started talking.” His smile says he knows exactly what’s happened, the nature of your misunderstanding. “You were distracted.”

You’ve confessed on the basis of a misunderstanding. “This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me,” you utter.

James swings your hand lightly.

“And the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says. “Since you’ll be late now anyhow, maybe we could go get a hot chocolate.”

You gawp at his pleased smile. What have I gotten myself into? you think. And then, louder, Wow, he looks so happy.

—

James strangles the neck of a bulging bouquet in his hands, green stems wrapped in cellophane choked between two stressed palms, ten rigid fingers. The smell of fresh pollen and something sweeter awakens at his abuse, but James can’t make himself put them down.

You may not care if you win or lose the competition today, but he does. He hasn’t actually ever been with you during one, and he wasn’t supposed to be here today — he had a game, and as soon as it was over he piled into Sirius’ car with his kit on and had his friend break a couple of road rules (read: not laws, but guidelines) involving trampling a garden and a precarious not u-turn. (Sirius may have broken a law or two, but they were daft laws, and James didn’t get anybody hurt.)

He knows it doesn’t matter. He said you’d take it slow, and you are. He hasn’t even kissed you yet, and he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he worried. It’s enough to know you’re his, exclusively if tenuously, that he can find you at the rink or walk you to work and not need a reason anymore, because he wants to see you, and that’s enough. He’d even taken you out on a date, a proper one after the hot chocolate, with nice clothes and wine and champagne at a weirdly intricate restaurant that served foie gras and played classical music in the background. It was cute, and James adored being able to pull out your seat, take your jacket off of your shoulders, kiss your cheek goodnight just a little further in than a friend might.

You’ve finished the jumps in your program now, and James is relieved and gutted at once. Relieved, because they hadn’t quite scared him so much on TV, and gutted, because you look beautiful every time. It’s insane to see your body twist and turn, land and leap with that level of precision. All that's left for you to do is dance. He likes the way it looks, eyes focused on the pull and fall of your arms, how you smile, and in that last moment, where you pull your body in as tight as you can and spin until James is sure he’d see stars.

You skate to the centre of the ice and bow to the judges, and you don’t notice James is standing there waiting for you until you’re off the ice completely.

“Oh,” he sees you say rather than hears. When you’re just close enough to hear, you say, “Jamie, hi. I thought you had your game,” and throw your arms around his shoulders. James is very tall and very wide, and there’s a bouquet of flowers between you, but it’s a great hug.

He hugs you so hard you start to bend backward under his weight, the soft material of your bodysuit so soft it feels wet under his hands. Your face is hot, and you're still trying to catch your breath after your program, quick breaths like small gusts of wind against his neck. He feels your arms tighten incrementally, impossibly, and he closes his eyes for a lavish second of burying his nose in your hair.

“I played, we lost, it was good fun. Now I’m here to watch my girl win big.”

You laugh and pull away, your eyes shimmering with joy, post-competition adrenaline. “I flubbed my first jump, did you see? I almost hit the ice.”

“You pulled up amazing,” he says.

He spies your coach (who isn’t so much your coach as a friend, Mel, from the rink who goes with anyone who can get far enough into competitions to need one) with your jacket standing a little ways away.

“Hey, Mel, could I have that?” James asks.

Mel gives him a knowing look. She hands it over and he shoves the flowers at you without waiting for a reaction, wanting to get you wrapped up warm again as fast as he can. You slide one arm at a time into the sleeves and don’t say a peep when he zips it closed.

“James,” you say. Your cheek dips a touch toward your shoulder. Fondness lined each seraphim feature. “Sirius is calling you.”

He frowns. He’s been hoping for a little thank you kiss (cheek or chin, whatever you could reach), and Sirius is neither. He turns to where you’re looking at Sirius standing a ways away with some other spectators.

“You have absolutely no game!” Sirius shouts. “None!”

“What’s your problem?” James shouts back.

“You’re supposed to kiss her now? You twit!” he shouts, vehement.

James turns away from him, “God, I’m sorry, he’s such a fucking idiot, he…”

You’re looking at him. Quiet, face turned up and eyes squinted, eyelashes kissing in the corners, your glossy lips turned up like you want to be kissed. He feels it like a cheesy movie and he doesn’t care, every moment spent with you condensed as his hands come alive and cradle your face of their own accord.

He isn’t expecting you to lift up on your skates and kiss him first.

He does get fireworks, thank you very much. James Potter has been waiting to kiss you since the very first time he saw you, on ice, curling out of a tight spin with a deliriously happy laugh. It feels like an explosion, and the crowd cheers behind you for a jump he can’t see and it doesn’t matter, it fits, it makes perfect sense that a whole room of people would be up on their feet as he presses his lips to yours.

“You looked so pretty,” he tells you, nose sliding against yours as he holds himself back.

You kiss his bottom lip, another burst of floral scents erupting between you as you try not to slip back on your skate blades. “Thanks, James.”

He smiles into your mouth, melts into your hold, and takes another heart-thrumming kiss.

You’re runner up in the competition. You’re the only girl who isn’t on the pedestal that gets a bouquet of flowers, and likely the only one who doesn’t care, not one bit. You smile at James like you’ve won the gold on the way out of the centre, your hand latched firmly around his.

“Sirius.” You stop in the car park, flowers pressed to your chest. James stops beside you with your skate bag swung over his shoulder. “What happened to your car?” you ask.

Sirius kicks a new dent. “Friendship,” he says grimly.

James leans toward you, his lips at your ear. “Bender. Best not to ask about it. He’s sensitive.”

“Oh,” you murmur. “Okay.”

He kisses your temple. “Thanks, angel.”

･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ

thank you so much for reading! please reblog if you enjoyed, it makes such a difference for me <3<3<3<3<3

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fic #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter scenario #james potter oneshot #the marauders #marauders era #marauders

2K notes · View notes

barcaatthemoon · 6 months ago

Text

special || lucy bronze x reader ||

lucy takes you out on a special date.

admittedly, lucy felt like a shit girlfriend. not only had you uprooted yourself for her twice, but you never complained once about the changes. the two of you had met in lyon, and while when you followed her to manchester, you hadn't been dating, she knew that it was for her. you had never been shy about your complete willingness to do things for lucy or just to be close to her.

at first, lucy had been guilty about your relationship. keira had figured things out before the move to barcelona. there technically hadn't been anything going on, but lucy had caught feelings for you. she had adamantly denied them and clung to keira, only to be shoved away and eventually broken up with.

it was through your comfort of your teammate and best friend that the two of you had finally gotten together. two seasons at barcelona together were great, and while lucy hadn't resigned yet, she had been adamant that you do so. she wanted to watch you play for the blaugrana forever. being a wag didn't sound too bad to lucy, especially with the amount of days off that her knee pain had kept her bedridden.

"where are you running off to so early?" you asked lucy as she tried to sneak out of bed. it was a day off, so you weren't getting up for another couple hours at the very least. usually lucy stayed with you, but it seemed like today she had somewhere to be. "did jona call you in to talk about your contract?"

"no love, i've just got something to check on real quick. i promise that i'll be back soon, and with breakfast," lucy promised you. you sighed and rolled over to go back to sleep. it was barely light outside, and all you wanted was to cuddle up with lucy, but you'd settle for breakfast.

it was about three hours later when lucy got back. she seemed somewhat disappointed to see you out of bed, but still brought you the breakfast takeout to the couch. she made herself comfortable behind you with an arm wrapped around your waist. close by, you could tell that something was bothering lucy, but you'd have to wait for her to open up to you about it.

"i was thinking that we could watch a movie this afternoon and then go out. i know that we usually do things the other way, but i was hoping you wouldn't mind," lucy said.

"whatever you want." you turned your head and pressed a soft kiss to lucy's lips. she hummed happily as she pulled you back to fully lay against her. the two of you stayed on the couch all afternoon until lucy's phone started to vibrate with text after text. lucy seemed to take that as some sort of cue to go outside and grab something from keira. "what is that?"

"a dress for our date," lucy told you. she shoved the back into your arms and ushered you to shower and get changed. you got ready in the master bedroom, trying not to rush yourself, but unsure of how much time you had. all in all, you were happy with how you looked, even if you were a bit unsure about all of the skin left on display by your dress.

"luce, where are we going?" you asked as you stepped into the living room. your jaw was nearly on the floor when she turned around. it was the first time in a few weeks that you had seen lucy in something other than joggers or her training kit. the slacks fit her nicely, clinging to her thighs in a way that sent shivers down your spine. her shirt was tucked in with the sleeves rolled up enough to see the muscles in her forearms as she moved about.

"somewhere special, but before we go, i have to tell you something," lucy said. she seemed a bit somber, and you knew in that moment it was about her resigning. "tomorrow morning, they'll announce my free agency. i'm not signing with barcelona, but i'm not going anywhere else either. it's not permanent, but i think it's time to take a little break from football."

"what are you going to do?" tears were threatening to fall from your eyes. you didn't want lucy to go all the way back to england, not when you were stuck at barcelona for another three years. your contract had been a good one, and lucy knew that you weren't going anywhere. you were happy at barcelona, and if she left, you knew that it wouldn't be the same. you didn't want to play anywhere without lucy there as well.

"i'll stay here. maybe travel a little, but i want to watch you play. i've got us a month set aside in the offseason to stay with my family, and then we can look into finding a bigger place. that building by the beach has an apartment open," lucy told you. she knew how badly you wanted to rent that place. it was nearly twice the size of your apartment, pet friendly, and practically right on the beach. it was the perfect place in your mind.

"lucy, i love you, but if you scare me like that, i'll never speak to you again," you threatened. both of you knew that it was an empty threat, but lucy still apologized and did her best to cheer you up on the way to your date. "luce, why are we at the park?"

"come on, you'll see." you were a bit apprehensive of lucy walking you through the park, but you trusted her. the sun was quickly setting in the sky, and by the time that lucy finally stopped the two of you, it was dark. lucy had your eyes covered up, but you could see the faint bits of lights through the cracks in her fingers.

"lucy, this is amazing. you did this for me?" your voice cracked, betraying the overwhelming happiness you felt. lucy cradled your face in her hands and brushed her thumbs across your cheeks. "why?"

"i didn't do it alone, but i did it because i love you. we've both been so busy lately, and you deserved a nice date night. i knew that you'd be upset when i told you about my decision, so i hoped this would help distract you. now, come on, let's enjoy this because i'm pretty sure that if we don't hurry, pina and patri are gonna come out of the bushes at any moment to steal our food," lucy joked. she pulled you over towards the table, where you did notice some rustling from behind one of the bushes.

everything was perfect. you had a delicious meal in a gorgeous setting with the best company in the world. the only thing that you thought could have made it better was if lucy had dropped down onto one knee to propose. however, you knew that lucy wanted both of you to be done with football before that happened. lucy's break wouldn't last forever, and even if it did, you knew that your relationship could handle whatever choices she made after that.

#woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #lucy bronze imagine #lucy bronze x reader

332 notes · View notes

kalims · 2 years ago

Text

sugar

flushed — when you fluster them and how they act.

do you want a 'kiss' — not an actual kiss, the chocolate.

falling (asleep) — you fall asleep on their shoulder.

w/ malleus draconia

commissioned by paru !

flushed — when you fluster them and how they act.

typically if it was anyone else, they'd have a really hard time to gauge out a reaction from malleus when the most they'll get is probably a barely evident crease, or raise in his brows.

in this case tis our very lovely mc who malleus is very much already on the ground from how fast he fell. you could do just about anything, give him a rock or something, and he’ll thank you eternally and keep it in a room above the most eccentric gifts he's ever gotten.

(god forbid if sebek ever enters, and sees some random rock on a pedestal meanwhile his gifts for the master is just.. there on some table like malleus didn't even think twice to leave it there then worship that rock!)

^ well thankfully, out of respect. sebek believes that someone like him simply is not privileged enough to enter the room of his esteemed master.

anything remotely affectionate from you would definitely send malleus to cloud nine for the whole day, he's practically emitting comical hearts every second you're together. they're trailing after him as he's following you around.

so you have a variety of choices! a heartfelt compliment, a hug, maybe even a kiss. whatever you choose will only feed on the overflowing glass that's called; 'malleus' love for mc'. trust me if you think he's like 67% in love with you, you're WRONG.

it's actually 101% and it's still increasing I swear 😭

well the glass I was talking about is probably overflowing right now, and it's also probably going to start drowning everyone.

as in… everyone's just stuck to witness malleus' insanely endearing reactions to your shenanigans. should they be scared that malleus would probably do it in a heartbeat if you asked to take over the world??

yeah they should tbh.

in this case, I believe a close hug then a whisper in his ears would really make that arrow hit straight to his heart. you can't just whisper 'doritos' though! /j but you shall instead proclaim your love for him instead with a single 'I love you'.

it's funny to see his face completely freeze. you can practically hear his brain absolutely blowing up. there's a wobbly grin stretching across his face, the tip of his ears turn a shade of pink.

he looks… shy, but oddly pleased.

hellour congratulations malleus will not stop till you're both bound for life 💀 trust me he won't take anyone else if it isn't you anymore. he loves you THAT much.

malleus is not aware of the feeling blooming in his chest, it's foreign. he could even describe it as addictive. he's clueless really, but what he's sure of is that he wonders if you'd feel that too if he did the same to you.

oh well.. you've exposed him to such a euphoric feeling. it's only natural for him to return the favor.

so honestly just expect him to be the rizzlord for the rest of your existence, he's rizzing you up every chance he can get. and the fact that most of it is just him not trying at all, and just being himself.

which is also funny cause when he does try to 'charm' you it ends up in fail.

like who let him bring you the 'rewards of his hunt' as a courting offering.

and when he tries to recite a letter he wrote for you, it's very endearing, and flattering but he's been talking for quite a long time now and you're concerned.

do you want a 'kiss' — not an actual kiss, the chocolate.

*malleus holding a big ass bowl* yes pls

^ but that's if he knows it's chocolate, and still wants the legit kiss. in a way that's the amount he'd want if it was the real deal.

not that he does know! cause malleus isn't exactly educated in the chocolate culture. as horrifying as it sounds, i doubt he snacks on chocolate in his free time.

I guess he didn't have much time to be a child :(.

he's tasted it before though! but knowing specific brands doesn't really cross his mind. for malleus chocolate is just chocolate.

so he definitely doesn't know that there's a brand of chocolate called kisses.

so when you ask him if he wants a kiss he's like: yes. IMMEDIATELY.

ok maybe not immediately but he gives you this certain look, and when he registers your silence at his face he realizes that you're being serious.

malleus rn: well I mean ur offering so

WHEN DID HE EVEN FINISH EATING A MINT CANDY.

jokes aside it's almost sad to think how he'll react when it's in fact, not a kiss.

when you pull out some kind of thing wrapped around in some kind of foil and place it inside malleus' palm he's just confused. where are his kisses?? why are you giving him this thing??

malleus spots the 'kisses' label on it and blanks.

oh.. so that's what you meant.

okay he's happy to receive anything from you but that's foul play!

but he really likes you so he won't comment on it 😞 you didn't even elaborate so it's partially his fault for jumping into conclusions.

no one can explain, not even you when there's a visible aura radiating off malleus. something gloomy, and he won't tell you even if you point out that you've noticed him constantly glancing at your face.

well your lips but you also don't know that.

falling (asleep) — you fall asleep on their shoulder.

would refuse to move at all.

first of all, he's honored that you trust him this much to lower your guard, and fall asleep on him. malleus is aware, sorta. he doesn't stop talking but instead slows down his words.

he doesn't want to wake you up, does he?

so he just settles on rambling in hopes that even in your dreams, his voice would reach you. you'd dream of him day, and night.

but when he's done malleus makes very little movement, hyper aware that you've fallen asleep on him. so when he finally assumes a position most comfortable for you, (plus one where he wouldn't crane his neck too much to peer at you) and he just stares.

he's done this plenty of times when you were awake so he doesn't know why he's doing it now. maybe it's because he sees you awake every time, and when you were, he could see the slightest bit of exhaustion present in your eyes.

this way he can be at peace knowing you are.

he recalls your certain features, he'd love to just gaze into your eyes right now and see himself in it but the fact that he can feel all your weight on him is better than anything he's ever felt before.

cold, rainy days in nrc are just a blessing from grace.

but you now just discover that rain here is a lot stronger than your local pour back at home. to make everything worse, you had no idea it was gonna rain this hard, and if you did you wouldn't have taken the time to visit the city on a sunday.

now you're stuck waiting under a cover outside a shop. your patience honestly starting to run thin. from your legs sincerely, you're immensely thankful for the random bench under it cause you're sure they would have been quaking from the amount of time you spent waiting.

but you do like the weather, cold weather is rare to see when the sunny days reign over many.

you should have brought a jacket or something.

"child of man?"

you blink when malleus tilts his head at you, a thin smile playing upon his lips. his shoulders seem to ease up at the sight of you. your eyes fly above him, weirdly enough it's like there's some invisible force protecting malleus from the weather so he's completely dry.

albeit weakly, you still make an effort to give him a half hearted wave.

of which he notes.

malleus makes his way over to you, and your beloved bench you had started acquainting yourself with. "may I?" he gestures beside you, and you take that as an initiative to move over.

he takes a seat next to you right after.

"how are you faring?" his eyes crinkle, he stares deeply into you.

you chuckle. "well I'm stuck here for a while I guess. I already miss my bed,"

the man beside you raises his brow before lightly raising his shoulder, leaning towards you a little for emphasis but you're sure that's just another excuse to take up more of your space.

you get what he's implying in a second. "oh no, no," you shake your head. that would be… embarrassing.

but your yawn betrays you, and malleus easily coaxes you into using his shoulder. with or without your will, you can't even remember what happened until you blearily open your eyes, and realize the rain has passed by.

when you wake up you feel like you've had the best sleep in your life. but you're sure you would have frozen to death by now.

your hands feel the fabric between your fingers, previously taken over your shoulders. ah.

… as well as a pair of eyes staining into your existence.

wc. 1.5k

#ㅤ◜◡◝ . . signed !#malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #x gn reader

1K notes · View notes

brucewaynehater101 · 6 months ago

Note

So there's a fic that I think you will like. It's called The Definition of Valor by Nerdpoe. Really short, spoiler free summery. Instead of loosing his Spleen, Tim looses his eyes. He makes special gadgets to help him with this, such as a device in is cowl that scans the room he is in and tells him what is where via coded sounds, like say, two low A notes followed by a chirp means there is a wooden desk to the north east of him. He also makes a special computer program for his grapple so when he points it somewhere, it will adjust his aim so he never misses and always attaches to a good spot.

This fic is giving me *so many* thoughts about the potential fall out of this being found out not as soon as Tim gets back to Gothem because he never tells anyone. Specifically it's making me think about Tim who is Bruce's dad not telling Bruce because he doesn't want to worry his son. He doesn't want to worry his grandchildren/siblings either so he puts in colored contacts and wears glasses when his cowl isn't on. The glasses and an ear piece have the same tech as his cowl to tell him where everything is.

How long would it take them to find out? Tim would never tell them, so do they find out on accident because Tim forgot the contacts that are his normal eye color, or because Ras is mad at Tim and tells them what Ras did to Tim? Maybe he got to mad and while ranting at a Rouge (either Harley or Two Face would be especially funny if he's just been hanging upside down and ranting and raving fo 30 minuets already) over one of their traps, he accidentally lets slip that he's blind, or maybe he yells at Riddler, "Nygma, this isn't fair! I've been completely blind since last July and my usual tech that tells me what's around me is getting fucked by your signal jammer! So either read the riddle to me out loud or let me go!" and then later Riddler scolds one of the other Bats for letting the blind one do the visual puzzles much to their confusion.

Hi!!! I love that fic so much! Have you seen the sequel for it as well? It's short, but a great read. I would die for more of this concept.

In that fic, Bruce turns out to be a good dad. While I may hate Bruce, the way that guy handles the situation in that fic is fantastic.

However, I would like a fic where this concept gets a delayed reveal. In the AU, Tim figures out how to function without his eyes.

He engineers technology to read people's facial expression/body language to help him out. It reads words for him, etc.

I wonder what excuse he'd give for wearing the earpiece and glasses all the time. Maybe he says it's another aspect to separate Timothy Drake from Red Robin?

Just Tim gaslighting and girlbossing his way into pretending he can still see. I kind of want him to keep up the ruse for a long while.

When he does get found it, it'd be hilarious if the others forget he's blind. Tim has engineered technology to assist him, but he still can't see. So they'll try to take him to activities they did together when he could see (like star gazing) or they'll ask him what he thinks of the color of their outfit. He also ruthlessly uses his blindness as an excuse to mess with people. If Timothy Drake-Wayne is known to be blind, he'll use it to accuse Luthor of being ableist at every chance he'll get. He also bullies the shit out of governmental agents and companies that don't provide accommodations.

I'm also a fan of Riddler finding out about it, but him just changing his puzzles to be accommodating. I'm biased towards Riddler (I love him so much) so it'd be cool to see the silent show of support like that.

Another AU idea: When Tim blows up Ra's bases, the explosions cause him to become deaf or hard-of-hearing.

Dealer's choice on how much hearing he loses, but I feel like this could be great to explore deafness and misconceptions commonly held in our society.

Tim would probably already know how to sign and lip read (might even know multiple different sign languages), but he would face a few difficulties.

He chooses not to disclose his hearing loss

People often cover their mouths or face away from someone when speaking (which makes lip reading arduous)

Ableist people suck

The world is set up for hearing people, so a lot of issues stem from a lack of accommodations rather than Tim's ability to hear

Tim chose not to tell anyone about the change in hearing for a few reasons: he doesn't trust anyone (especially during his adjustment period) and he doesn't want to be underestimated (wants to prove himself in the field before they try to pull him from it).

As far as technology to help him, the comms were easier to program than other auditory inputs. Since they were designed to transmit clear voices, he merely has to train a program to automatically close caption whatever is spoken (the automatic ones used today are useful, but still make too many errors for Tim's preference. Some also only do words automatically and leave out helpful information like laughing, choking, screaming, computer dings, etc.). Each Bat member has their own designated color. For those he doesn't interact with often, it says their name before every time they speak up.

Tim incorporates the visual overlay into his goggles and glasses. He can read what people contribute to the conversation based on that. It also leaves his hands free so he doesn't need to look down. His wrist computer stores records of what has been said so Tim can go back over it if he misses it. He also has the ability to change where the words appear on his field of vision.

I also hc Alfred is the first to notice that Tim is staring intently at his lips when he talks and has difficulties with the conversation when Alfred changes the way he pronounces words or isn't facing Tim (this is before Tim's tech gets perfected). From then on, Alfred makes a point of facing Tim whenever the teen is in the room. They both don't talk about it until the rest of the family finds out (however long that takes).

Feel free to add more to either AU!

#dc comics #tim drake #dc universe #thank you for the ask!!!!#dc au

169 notes · View notes

elliaze · 4 months ago

Text

Weightless

Parring: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Warnings: Joel and reader are neighbors, age gap (Joel is 10 years older), no!outbreak, reader has 23 years old, Sarah is here but only mention, neighbors-to-friends-to-idiots-in-love-trope?, protective!Joel, they are head over hills to each other, but Joel think he's to old for her, mostly fluff but with a little heart-break,

Summary: Joel goes to the bar when Y/N is working and then something happens.

Word Count: +2700

Divider by @cafekitsune

MASTERLIST

Y/N was twenty-three when she fell in love.

Or had it lasted much longer?

It was hard to tell, because Joel Miller had been in her life almost from the beginning. First, as an annoying adult neighbour. She loved to play pranks on him when she was a child. He had always threatened to tell her parents, but she knew that had never happened. Later, as she grew up, that same annoying neighbour suddenly became an exceptionally handsome neighbour. It had been a time when she had paid no attention to boys her own age, thinking they were complete idiots. It was also a time when she had gone from being an ordinary girl next door to being Sarah’s babysitter, especially when Joel and his brother couldn’t take care of the little girl. Y/N remembered how she would blush every time she passed Miller, especially when he started talking to her about something other than how his beloved daughter was doing. She thought that her crush on her older neighbour was just a result of her teenage years. She thought that would pass.

A few years later, it didn't. On top of that, everything got more complicated because she and Joel started to be friends. He didn't treat her like a child, although he could, especially since he saw her in every, even the most embarrassing, moment and witnessed her running around the yard with two pigtails and pink tights that always ended up dirty with mud. She knew that she could rely on him, sometimes much more than on her so-called friends. And she wanted it to work both ways, but sometimes she had the impression that there were moments when he looked at her through the prism of the age difference.

“Beer and a hamburger for my favourite customer,” she said cheerfully, placing a plate of food and a bottle of alcohol on the table. Taking advantage of the fact that she finally had a free moment during her shift, she took a seat opposite Joel. “Hard day?”

“Tiring, and I really don't want to go home so soon because…”

“Sarah's staying over at a friend's” she finished for him, recalling her morning conversation with the girl. “She mentioned something to me, that they'll be watching movies and eating sweets. It is quite a pleasant prospect.”

“Maybe you should follow her example and rest yourself.”Joel pointed at her and took a quick sip of his beer. “Which shift is it? Eight? Nine?”

“Ten.”

“Even better. Honey, you're too young to work yourself to death.”

“I guess it's a good thing I have the whole day off tomorrow. And I'm going to lie around and do nothing, but only after our breakfast together. Because I hope it's still relevant?”

“You ask as if you haven't dropped by our house and eaten the fridge in years.”

“Hey!” She laughed and pulled a pen out of her apron. She threw it at the man, who leaned back at the last moment and snorted with laughter. “That's called slander, Miller. Watch out, or I'll tip you twice.”

“I could even pay triple for your company.”

Joel winked at her, and she blushed at his words anyway. She tried to cover it up by fixing her hair, but she still thought he must have noticed. Whatever that meant, she must have forgotten about it, because the door to the bar opened and a drunk man entered. The smile fell from her face as she recognized him as a customer she genuinely hated. He always hit on, even harassed, all the waitresses. Normally she could handle him, but now that she saw that he was clearly drunk, she had a bad feeling.

“What's going on?” Joel asked with concern, then glanced over his shoulder at the new man who had just taken a seat a few tables away. “Who's that? Do you know him?”

“Unfortunately. He's one of our customers who... Let's just say he really likes to pick on all the girls at work. I hate him, but I have to serve him.”

“I'll be here if anything. Just let me know and…”

“Thanks, but take care of your burger. I'm not going to serve him anyway because he's drunk.”

“Just be careful, okay?”

“When I'm not,” Y/N replied teasingly and stood up from her seat.

She slowly made her way to the occupied table. When she turned around for a moment to see if Joel had listened to her, she shook her head in amusement. She could have expected that the only person he listened to was himself and did only and exclusively what he thought was right. At least that's how she preferred to explain his intense gaze on her, so as not to get her hopes up too high.

However, getting the client turned out to be much more difficult than she thought. The initial texts and comments might have seemed funny, but when his behaviour began to become aggressive and intrusive, she began to lose patience. It wasn't the first time she had been in such a situation, so she knew how to behave. She had learned a long time ago that being a woman, she was doomed to this type of behaviour. She could endure a pat on the butt or other such gestures, but when he started calling her names and raised his hand to hit her, she completely froze in place. Not only that, but she was paralysed and if not for Joel's quick reaction, she would probably have ended up with a mangled face.

Miller pushed her back and grabbed the drunk man by the collar of his shirt. He lifted him up, and as he continued to argue and fight, Joel struck him first. It all happened so quickly that all Y/N could do was watch in shock and fear as the two men exchanged blows, chairs were overturned, and table decorations were smashed. Eventually, however, it all passed, and Joel walked over to her and grabbed her by the arms.

“Hey, talk to me,” he said calmly, as if he hadn't been in the fight just minutes before. “Y/N?”

“Everything's okay,” she assured him, and to confirm her words, she patted his shoulders. It was then that she saw how bloody and raw his hands were. “You're hurt! Oh, my God, Joel!”

“It's nothing,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Are you closing up now? You've got enough to survive for one day.”

She just nodded.

Their trip was silent. Y/N could feel the fatigue and emotions of the last few events creeping up on her. She longed to go to bed and forget about it, especially since she was going to have to talk to her boss about what had happened when she got back from her day off. She had already informed her about it over the phone, and she was genuinely surprised because she had no complaints.

Joel parked his car in the driveway and turned off the engine. She looked at the windows in her house and saw that the light was on in her parents' room, which meant they were probably getting ready for bed. They had long since stopped waiting for her when she came back from her evening shifts, especially when Joel was the one who came to pick her up.

“Thank you for what you did.” Joel began to shake his head, as if her words were unnecessary, but she turned to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “It's true, Joel. I thought I was doing pretty well with him, but when he raised his hand to hit me, I completely panicked, and if it weren't for you, I would have…”

She didn't even want to think about what would have happened if she had been there alone.

“Any other guy would have done the same thing.”

“Maybe, but you didn't hesitate for a second. Whenever I need your help, you drop almost everything and help me. I hope you know how much that means to me.”

“If you’re trying to get me to make some tearful confessions, you’re doing a pretty good job,” he joked, and she shook her head in amusement. “Go home. Get some rest.”

“Oh no! Joel Miller, you saved me today, so let me repay you.” The man raised an eyebrow at her, and she pointed to his mangled hands. “Now it’s my turn to help you. You know I’ll treat those wounds like a professional nurse.”

“I know, because you’ve done it with Sarah so many times. Fine, but then you’re going straight home for a good night’s sleep.”

“I’m a grown woman and I can take care of myself, you know?”

“It’s hard to tell when you were running around the yard with two pigtails and pink tights just a few years ago.”

She rolled her eyes and got out of the car.

When she entered the Millers’ house, she felt at home. Sometimes she even considered this place her second home, because she spent almost as much time there as she did in her family's house. She didn't know what it had to do with it, but Joel's house had always been an oasis of warmth and love for her. She loved her parents and the fact that they provided her with everything they could, but because she was raised alone, she often felt lonely there. Here, she always knew she would find someone to talk to or watch some stupid movie. Mostly it was Sarah, whom she loved taking care of, but Tommy and Joel would show up just as often. She especially loved the moments when the four of them spent time together. To some, she might have been an outsider to the Miller family, but with them, she never felt that way.

Y/N quickly found the things she needed and went back to the living room, where Joel was waiting for her on the couch. He was sitting sprawled with his head up, and she stopped for a moment to watch him. She had long thought he was handsome, but she had the impression that with each passing year he looked even better. She could see that he was as tired as she was, but even now she could imagine sitting on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing their lips together. Her infatuation was dangerous, and she was fully aware of it. But she wouldn't be able to break what connected her to Joel. She preferred their strange, friendly relationship to nothing.

“Don't fall asleep, old man,” she said jokingly, walking over to the couch he was sitting on. Joel straightened up, making room for her next to him.

“I'm not old enough to be called that.”

“I'll remind you when I see first grey hair.”

“Mine or yours?”

She laughed merrily and then began to bandage his hands. The only sounds in the room were quiet hisses and moans, but Y/N still had the impression that Joel could hear her loudly beating heart. She did everything she could to focus on her task as much as possible, but the man's proximity was definitely distracting for her. She suspected that it might have something to do with what had happened. Emotions still clung to her, even if she had already come to terms with it.

But now she seemed to feel Joel's presence next to her more strongly. They had been in such situations more than once, but at this moment she was holding back with the last bit of willpower not to do something stupid.

“It's done,” she said after a short while with complete satisfaction. “I hope it heals quickly.”

“After such professional help?”

“Professional and completely free,” she emphasised, and began to clean up all the things. She wanted to get up, but Joel grabbed her hand and stopped her in her tracks.

“Leave it and sit down. You're exhausted and you just bandaged my wounds. You don't have to clean up yet.”

“Oh, okay,” she sighed quietly. She leaned back against the couch, defeated, and felt a shiver as their shoulders touched. “Are you thinking about something specific?”

“No. What about you?”

“Nothing specific either.”

Joel snorted and looked at her with amusement. She thought she was crazy, because otherwise she couldn't understand how she leaned over Miller and placed a short kiss on his lips. She wasn't even sure if she should call it a kiss, because their lips only touched lightly before she pulled away. But those few seconds allowed her to get to know his taste, and she knew that nothing tasted as intoxicating as his lips. It wasn't her first kiss in her life, but for a moment, that's exactly how she felt.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have,” she began with flushed cheeks.

Then something happened that completely surprised her. Joel didn't answer, but grabbed her by the waist and pulled her closer. Then he connected their lips together in a longer and definitely confident kiss. Without thinking, she opened her lips wider, giving him better access and at the same time allowing him to take control of the whole situation. She felt like her ears were buzzing, and her heart wanted to jump out of her chest. The whole world had stopped, and her biggest dream was coming true.

She tangled her fingers in his hair and moaned quietly when he gently bit her lip. Joel grabbed her by the waist and sat her on his lap. Holding her hips tightly, he guided her to where he needed her the most. He growled right into her mouth, and then his hands moved up. Y/N felt a shiver run through her body as she felt his touch on her. But she wanted more and cursed everything that they were still wearing clothes at the moment. When she thought about it, her fingers almost immediately went to the buttons of his shirt. When she unbuttoned the first one, she waited a moment, because as much as she wanted this to continue, she had to be sure that he wanted it too.

Joel didn't push her away, but continued. His hands quickly found their way to her shoulders. He pulled the straps of her tank top to the side, so that the outline of her breasts and the black bra she was wearing were visible from under the material. He kissed her jaw, then her neck, and she gasped loudly as he sucked in the extremely sensitive skin by her ear. At the same time, she unbuttoned the buttons on his shirt, until she could finally feel his warm skin under her fingers. His chest rose and fell, and she traced short patterns on his torso and sides with her fingers. She ran her nails down his back and slowly moved her hips forward and back, feeling the bulge in his pants, which she was sure was starting to bother him more and more.

“Joel,” she murmured in his ear as she felt him squeeze her breast, then slip his thumb under the material of her bra. “Please…”

She didn't know what exactly she was asking for. She wanted him to finally take off her shirt, so she could feel his touch better. She wanted to feel his hands and lips all over her. She was completely lost for him and didn't think about whether they were doing the right thing or what would happen next.

But the last thing she wanted was for Joel to pull away from her.

“We can't,” he said in a hoarse voice, resting his forehead against hers. He held her around the waist, but not as tightly as before. “We got carried away.”

“What?” she asked, not believing what she was hearing.

Miller smiled and, as if nothing had happened, sat her back down on the couch next to him.

“Go home and rest. We'll talk some other day.”

He kissed her on the cheek, then stood up and headed up the stairs to his bedroom.

She didn't quite know what was going on, and it took her a few good minutes to pull herself together and get things in order. Her ears were still ringing, she could feel his touch on her body, but she couldn't get over the fact that she had been pushed away at the most crucial moment. She clenched her fists tightly and promised herself that tomorrow they would sort it all out. She had to know if this little moment meant as much to him as it did to her.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x y/n #pedro pascal #joel miller fluff #elliaze #@cafekitsune

95 notes · View notes